My Mother's Daughter
by Lady K 171
Summary: Set during The Captive. An increase in FBI activity drives Duchenko to move the drop ship far out into international waters. It will take Marta & Irwin all night to make a single run. She blames Marta for the FBI & threatens the safety of her family, forcing Marta to send Gabriel and Boris away. Marta turns to Schiller to help her find Natalie and to protect her during the runs.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of the hotel room door opening gives me a chill, like when I was a little girl and I would hide from Gabriel around the clothing racks in a store. In that moment when he would look for me and couldn't find me – in that moment when it was just the two of us, before Boris had even been born – I'd feel this chill, as if the world weren't right because I was missing my other half. I was in the wrong place. I was alone. And when he saw me – right when he saw me – the world would come rushing back in again, sweeping me up and putting me right back where I was supposed to be, where I was with my family, where everything was in color, where I was safe.

But Uncle Mike doesn't walk through the door, and I shrink back, pressing my back flat against the pillows behind me. The pillows are gray, and the walls are beige, and nothing here is really in color – not even me. A man walks in, but he's not in color either. He's like a charcoal drawing – chiaroscuro – the way it looks when I sketch an outline, the way it looked when I drew that boot for Boris, that boot with its lone yellow stripe.

I don't realize that I'm pulling back, using my feet to push myself as far back into the pillows as I'll go, my sneakers scuffing on the not-brown nap of the carpet. I don't realize it until the man stops a few feet in front of me. He holds his hand out and almost smiles. His eyes are ice gray, like the charcoal of his suit, like the underside-of-a-dove's-wing-gray on his tie.

"It's alright," he says to me, and there's that same small smile, like he's about to share the punch line of a joke or insult me.

I stop pushing myself back into the pillows. He steps forward and kneels down in front of me. He puts his hand out toward me and gestures at the same time to a man behind him to stay back. I hadn't even noticed because the other man blends perfectly into the wall behind him. I stare at this man kneeling in front of me – somehow moving even though he is staying still, somehow in color even though he is gray. And the other part of me, the artist part of me starts drawing him in my mind even though I know I have to pay attention to this moment, even though I know he might be here to hurt me.

"I know your mother," the man says. And he waits to let his words sink in.

I sit up – fast. "Is she here?" I ask, even though I know she isn't. If she were, she'd be crouching in front of me now instead of this man. My question comes out squeaky – it's the desperate hope of a child that I know I no longer am – that I haven't been since my father died.

"No," the man says. He presses his lips together. It is almost a smile, and it makes dimples appear around his mouth. My fingers twitch to draw them. "But I'll take you to her later. Right now, you need to come with me."

The man's words are impeccably pronounced around an accent that rounds his o's when he says "now" and "come". It isn't like dedushka's accent or even like the hint of mom's, so I know he isn't bratva – isn't family. It's funny how quickly that word settles onto my tongue in my mind, as if I knew all along who dedushka was – who we are – without ever really knowing it until now.

The man holds out his hand behind him and slightly to the right, and the other man magically appears again at his side. He places a knife into the man's hand, and somehow I know that he isn't about to cut me. I lean forward a little and let my arms come toward him. He looks at me with those gray eyes for a second before he lowers the knife to cut off the plastic zip ties. He leans down to look at the knife, to steady the blade tip as it reaches the black plastic. I tilt my head as I watch him.

"Who are you?" I say. It comes out softly.

He glances up at me and gives me the tiniest half smile. "My name is Mr. Schiller," he says.

The plastic of the zip tie pops as he cuts me loose, and I snap my arms back against my chest as if he has just burned me. I recoil. I pull away. I press myself back into the pillows behind me as far as I will go.

* * *

She's tiny, even though she isn't a child. And it's not her size, but her face that makes her that way. She's like her mother but a miniature version – again, not in size but in her openness. She has the rounded features of a child still, and her cheeks look liquid soft – like surface tension across milk.

She closes and opens visibly, like a book. When she hears the hotel room door open – she closes. When she hears I know her mother – open. And when she hears me say my name – close.

* * *

It's rage, terror and revulsion all at once. They're shoving each other out of the way inside my brain. Is this what my father felt?

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say, and the sound of it leaks out through my words.

The man tilts his head and quirks his lips into that same half-smile. Hatred elbows out all the rest.

"You know who I am," the man says, and he looks at me eagerly, almost like a child.

"I know who you are," I say, and I don't have to draw courage for the venom to be there.

The man tilts his head and waits for me to go on, but I don't say anything and so we just stare at each other. He doesn't move, and even though I want to, I can't hold his gaze. I sit clutching at my wrist, the last place he came close to touching me, and hold it like if I don't, it'll fly out and smack him across the face. When I look back up at him, I feel like I'm shaking, but he sits perfectly still – still smiling at me without smiling, still moving without moving at all.

"Tell me," the man says, with the slightest dip of his chin to the left.

At least I made him talk first.

I narrow my eyes, feeling rather than just looking the way my father did the only time I can remember when I could have imagined him being the things that Uncle Mike had said. The way he'd looked at Uncle Mike the night they fought outside Aunt Kat's wedding – the way that I look at Mr. Schiller now.

The calm, almost placid expression on Mr. Schiller's face slowly hardens without moving even a muscle. But his eyes, so patient a moment ago, seem to come alive – seem to spark at what he sees in mine. And I feel it come up inside me – the Petrov part of me. I am dedushka's granddaughter. I am my mother's daughter. And I draw myself up so that he has to sit up to keep looking me in the eye.

"You killed my father," I say, and my voice doesn't waver an ounce.

Mr. Schiller's face doesn't change expression, but he tilts his head to the side, as if considering it.

"Who was it that told you that?" he asks. His eyes shift, and they catch the light, like the surface of the water on a rainy day when we used to take the boats out into the harbor.

I shake my head. "What difference does it make?" I ask. I tilt my head the same way, and I can feel dedushka's eyes shining out through mine.

Mr. Schiller rubs his fingers against his palm, as if he's brushing a fine layer of dust off it onto the floor. "It makes a great deal of difference," he says, raising his eyes from his hand to meet mine. "Who you trust – who you – believe." Mr. Schiller drops his hand and looks at me full on. "Tell me, Natalie, please," he says. He says it so softly it sounds like it's coming from inside my own head, and he stresses the last syllable of my name instead of the first, the same way dedushka does.

I'm not telling you anything, I want to say. But I think it instead of saying it, and instead I just shake my head.

"Was it your mother?" Mr. Schiller asks.

I'm surprised. He really does know my mother? I thought he was lying about that. I thought he was lying to get me to go with him.

"You don't really know my mother, do you?" I say.

"I do," he says. "You don't believe me?"

"No, I don't," I say.

"And why not?" he asks.

"Because she wouldn't know a man like you," I say. I want to spit the words out – to cut him, but he only smiles.

"Would you like to talk to her?" he asks. He's acting patient, and I hate him for it. But when he pulls out his cell phone, my heart drops into the floor.

My mother. My mother! MY MOTHER!

I want to call my mother so badly it takes everything I have not to rip the phone out of his hands. I don't realize I've started crying until the first tears hit my cheeks.

Mr. Schiller looks away. He pretends to be fidgeting with his phone, scrolling through the contacts, so that he won't have to look into my face.

Dial, I think. It's a command so loud I think they can hear it across the street. Dial the phone.

Mr. Schiller finds the name he wants and swipes his finger across the touch screen. I'm waiting for him to hand it to me, but instead, he holds it up to his own ear. Will this be one of those proof of life calls, like they do on t.v.? Will he tell my mother that to get me back she has to give him $100,000? Will he hit me or make me scream so that my mother will come running? What is he going to do to us now?

"Mrs. Walraven?" Mr. Schiller says.

I can barely hear him, my heart is pounding so hard.

"Yes, I have her here with me now. But she'd like," Mr. Schiller says.

"Let me talk to her," my mother says. I can hear it through the phone.

When Mr. Schiller hands his phone to me, my hands are shaking so hard I almost drop it.

"Mom?" I say. It's the only word I can get out before I start sobbing.

"Natalie," my mother says. And I can tell that she's crying too. "Oh, my love. My beautiful girl."

Mr. Schiller moves back a little, and his eyes roam the rest of the musty little hotel room. I clutch the phone to my face, my tears soaking the front of the view screen.

"Where are you? Please, come get me," I say. I know I shouldn't. What if Mr. Schiller is here to kill us all – me and Mom and Gabriel and Boris? But I can't stop my mouth from working. All I want in this world is my mom.

"I can't, sweetheart. You don't know how much I want to, but I can't right now. Mr. Schiller is there," my mother says, and I hear a sound like an engine roaring. It's followed by the sound of a hard slap of water against a windscreen, and the rest of my mother's sentence is lost. "That's why Mr. Schiller is there, baby. He's going to get you out of there. He's going to keep you safe until I get back."

"But, mom," I say. I struggle to keep breathing. "You don't know what he did. Uncle Mike told me. He told me what Mr. Schiller did to dad."

"Uncle Mike?" my mother says. "Is he there? Is he with you?"

"No," I say. I shake my head and drag the sleeve of my sweater across my face to dry my tears. The wool bites into my cheek, and it burns. "No, he went out. But he told me – before he left, he told me." I look up, and I see Mr. Schiller watching me. But he doesn't look angry. He's just looking at me. I turn away and lower my mouth closer to the phone.

"Listen, baby," my mother says. "Uncle Mike – you shouldn't listen to him. He's – he doesn't know what he's saying."

I look up and see Mr. Schiller still watching me. He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and takes out a handkerchief – a real linen one. It has his initials on it and everything. He hands it to me, and I dry my face.

"I wouldn't let you go with him if I didn't know I could trust him with you," my mother says. "I know he'll keep you safe. I'll come get you as soon as I can."

"But, mom," I say again. And I look up at Mr. Schiller. "I can't go with him. I can't trust him."

Mr. Schiller presses his lips together. He raises his eyebrows, folding deep creases into his forehead.

"Trust me, baby," my mother says. "Trust me."

I take a deep breath. "Okay," I whisper. The last thing in the world I want to do is end the call, but with a shaking finger, I do.

* * *

I don't know what Mrs. Walraven says to her daughter, but when she hangs up the phone and hands it back to me, her eyes are settled. She brushes her cheek against her shoulder to dry an errant tear, even though she's still holding my handkerchief in her hand. She wipes the view screen of my phone against the leg of her jeans and then hands it slowly back to me. I give a fleeting smile and resist the urge to dry the screen further. I hold my hand out to her, and she places her tiny hand inside of mine. I pull her to her feet. She's so light it only takes one hand.

"Right, then. Shall we go?" Vincent says. He is smiles all around, and I close my eyes in a slow blink.

Natalie steps away from him and toward me. She gives a nearly imperceptible grimace.

I lay my hand on the girl's back, and I expect her to resist or to step away, but instead she falls into step beside me. We walk together until we reach the door to the hotel room. Then she stops and looks up at me. Her eyes are huge inside her face, like a small child's, and they are chocolate brown instead of blue like her mother's.

"What's going to happen to my Uncle Mike?" she asks.

I grimace. I take a breath before I speak. "He is – your mother's to deal with," I say. And I stretch my neck as if I can already smell the stale blood.


	2. Chapter 2

It's full night when we step outside the hotel room, and even in San Francisco, it feels cold from the breeze. Mr. Schiller takes off his suit jacket and drapes it around me. It's about ten sizes too big for me, and it hangs almost down to my knees. It's only then that I realize how tall he is. It's hard to look him in the face when we're standing side by side.

"Thank you," I say.

He gives a curt little nod.

"Bring the car," he says to the other guy.

"It's okay. I can walk to it," I say.

"It's just across the lot," Mr. Schiller says.

I nod. "It feels good to walk. I've been sitting down a long time," I say.

Mr. Schiller nods and places his hand on my back to guide me. While we walk, he seems to fidget without moving. It's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands now that we're walking.

"Where is my mother?" I ask. I glance up at him and brush a strand of hair out of my eyes.

"She took a boat out of the marina. She should be past the bay by now," Mr. Schiller says.

"What is she doing out there?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller gives a half shrug and gestures to the other guy to unlock the car doors. It's a black Lincoln, and Mr. Schiller holds the door open for me. The two of us get into the backseat, and it makes me feel like we're taking a limousine. "She's preparing to do some business for an important client of ours."

"Ours?" I ask. I look up at Mr. Schiller. He sits on the far edge of the backseat, the way people sit in the corner of a wrap-around couch. His one arm is draped across the top of the seat, but it's bent at the elbow so that it doesn't cross into my half. "Yes, ours – mine and your mother's."

"I know what 'ours' means," I say. I think he'll be mad, but I catch the barest shadow of a smile cross his face.

"I beg your pardon then," he says, and his eyes glint at me.

I wonder why he's being so nice to me. Aren't criminals supposed to be mean? "What I meant was," I say. I toy with a loose thread on the sleeve of my sweater. "How can the client be both of yours?" I look up and give my head a little shake to get a strand of hair out of my eyes.

"Because – we work together – your mother and I," Mr. Schiller says. He looks at me for a long moment.

"But you're a criminal," I say. I didn't actually mean to say it, but once it's out, I'm sort of glad.

Mr. Schiller gives another half shrug. "I prefer entrepreneur," he says.

I almost laugh when he says it. I settle back into my seat and look out my window. We're driving along the beach, and I can see the lights reflecting off the water as the tide comes in. "Mr. Schiller," I say. I don't turn to look at him when I say it. I watch my own reflection – the reflection of my eyes. I can see him looking at me in the mirror the window makes, but he doesn't say anything. "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?"

"I will," Mr. Schiller says.

I take a breath. "Did you kill my father?" I turn around and look him full in the face.

"I did not," Mr. Schiller says. He raises his eyebrows and lets me look into his eyes.

"But what else would you say? I mean, you wouldn't tell me even if you did it," I say.

"I would," Mr. Schiller says.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because," Mr. Schiller says. "What's the point in killing someone if you're not sending a message to everyone else?"

* * *

I expect her to be shocked. I expect fear, disgust, anger even. What I don't expect is what she does. She closes her eyes slowly and then opens them – a concession clear on her face.

"Thank you," she says. And she tips her head, as if she's deigning to thank me. "Thank you for telling me the truth." And there's the fleeting of something, something crossing her face, something she wants to share with me but doesn't.

* * *

It isn't cold inside the house, but I hug Mr. Schiller's jacket closer around me. I left all my stuff behind when I was tagging, and I feel naked now without a backpack or a coat or even my cell phone to put down when we walk through the door.

"Would you," Mr. Schiller says. He glances around the entryway we're standing in. "Would you like a tour?"

He fidgets without moving again, and I think that if he is a kidnapper, he must be the worst kidnapper ever.

"Okay," I say.

"After you," Mr. Schiller says. He gestures for me to walk into the house.

I lead the way, and Mr. Schiller doesn't say anything as he follows me from room to room. He must be the worst tour guide ever too, I think, and the thought of that makes me smile. Mr. Schiller sees it, and he must think that I'm smiling at him because he looks relieved. His shoulders relax a little, and he smiles back at me.

He takes me upstairs, up a long flight of stone steps that look cut right out of the rock. They aren't smooth and I imagine that they would feel cool and damp like river rock if I were to walk down them in bare feet. He shows me a room at the end of a hallway. It's dark-colored, and everything in it is made out of that same sedimentary rock and dark-grained woods.

"This is the guest room, for when I have visitors," Mr. Schiller says, even though the room looks as if it has never been used. Even the hangers in the closet are still wrapped in plastic, and the bedspread is so stiff when I run my fingers across it that I can't imagine anyone has ever slept under it.

Mr. Schiller has stopped walking, and I realize that he is standing just watching me. I lift my fingers from the raised diamond-pattern of the bedspread and realize that I've been touching it for a while now. Mr. Schiller smiles at me.

"And there's a washroom right through here," he says.

I follow him to a door at the back of the room. He opens it and turns on the light. Everything inside it is black marble, not rose granite like in our house.

"Is there anything you need?" he asks. He gives me another small smile.

I look back at the marble vanity. It'd be faster to list what I _didn't_ need. The countertops are completely empty. Even the soap dish stands bare. But I don't really know how to ask for it, so I just shake my head.

"Make yourself at home," Mr. Schiller says, and I get the feeling he's glad to be rid of me. "Are you hungry? Come downstairs when you're ready."

I nod and then just stand there until he closes the door and leaves me alone.

* * *

I mean to stay upstairs, but as soon as Mr. Schiller is gone, I start to feel shaky. I look at myself in the mirror. I've just been kidnapped – or, I'm still being kidnapped – I'm not really sure. I look the same, but I don't. If I stare at myself long enough in the mirror, my image starts to come apart. It's as if I'm coming undone, and the sight of it scares me so much I can't look anymore.

My face is streaked with tear tracks so I start hunting around for a bar of soap and a washcloth. When I pull open the cabinets beneath the sink, I find bottles of shampoo and hand lotion. Inside the drawers are white toothbrushes wrapped in plastic, hair brushes still in their paper boxes and glycerin soap shaped like a leaf. I laugh. I guess Mr. Schiller isn't such a bad host after all.

When I come out of the bedroom, I stop in the darkened hallway. I think about looking around. Boris and I used to love snooping around our parents' friends' houses during parties. I wonder if Mr. Schiller has real clothes in his closet, jeans and sweatshirts and tennis shoes, or if he only has those gray suits. But I feel paralyzed standing there alone. I want to go downstairs, I realize, or I want Mr. Schiller to come back upstairs. I don't want to be alone in the dark anymore. I really want to go home.

I go back to the top of the stairs and sit down on the top step. I can hear Mr. Schiller moving around in the kitchen, or maybe it's that goofy guy, Vincent. I run my fingers across the cool stone of the step, and just like I thought, it feels damp and soft like river rock. I wonder what it would be like to be a child in this house. Would it seem dark and scary like it does to me or would it just be home, as comfortable and familiar as my house? Would it be like the scary basement in our old house that I was afraid to go into alone or the cold storage locker in the back of dedushka's café? Or would it not be scary if Mr. Schiller were there or somebody that felt like a mom?

Something sizzles as it hits a pan, and I can smell something cooking. I pull myself up using the smooth, wooden banister and slowly walk down the steps. I find Mr. Schiller in the kitchen, making something in a heavy, black skillet. I hover near the doorway. He smiles at me and beckons at me to come in. I step just inside the kitchen and stop again.

"Are you hungry?" Mr. Schiller asks. He has a stripy blue and white apron on over his dress shirt and tie, and it makes me want to laugh. I crack a small smile and shrug one of my shoulders. "Why don't you come inside and sit down?"

I give a grudging smile and walk across the kitchen, pulling myself up to sit in a tall kitchen chair beside the island. It's marble, like the counter upstairs.

"I'm not sure if you'll like it," Mr. Schiller says. He takes a glass plate out of a cabinet over his head and slides something hot and toasty onto it. "It's cu brânzӑ la grӑtar," he says, and he looks at me to see my reaction.

I start laughing so suddenly I have to cover my mouth. It smells so good – so familiar – I feel tears pricking my eyes. He's made me a grilled cheese sandwich.

* * *

She sits at the island, the bread crunching each time she bites. Her legs swing just a touch from the chair. I can't think of the last time someone sat there. It must have been me, but I can't remember. I always eat in the dining room. I might suggest she do the same but she seems happy here, so I let her stay. I stand on the other side of the island watching her.

She is like a different child now, like I've unlocked some door within her, and she talks. She talks freely, sprinkling in the heavy things among the light. She likes the river stones I've used to make my stairs, she believes artists are happier than people with normal jobs, she hasn't slept through the night since her father died and she wants to drive the Corina more than she wants to drive a car. I listen to her without interrupting. The quiet animation of her features is hypnotic.


	3. Chapter 3

I lay awake between the slick sheets, underneath the stiff, heavy bedspread. I've left all the lights on in the room, but every time I close my eyes, it gets too dark and I feel like I can't breathe. It's the blackout dark of the blindfold, tied over my eyes all afternoon. Was it really just one afternoon? It feels like it lasted a lifetime.

I want to see if Mr. Schiller is still awake, but I'm afraid of going downstairs. I'm afraid of finding the kitchen dark and the lights off in all the rooms. I'm afraid of finding that Mr. Schiller is asleep and knowing that I'm totally alone. As long as I lie here awake, Mr. Schiller might be moving around in the lighted rooms downstairs. He might be drinking coffee at the marble island or walking across the wooden floors. My mother might be driving here in our car on her way to get me.

I wish I at least had my phone. I feel so far away from everyone I know. I wish I could be texting Gabriel to see if he and Boris are okay, or talking to my friend Sarah about the Spanish presentations I missed. I wish I could sit up on the phone with my mother and listen to the roar of the engines on the Corina. Just knowing she was there on the end of the line would make it so I could close my eyes. I wish I were with dedushka or Uncle Irwin or even Uncle Mike. I wish I were with my dad.

I sit up and push the blankets back. It's late, but I can't lie here anymore – not when every time I close my eyes, the nightmare comes back. I decide to go downstairs. Even if Mr. Schiller is asleep, I can still turn on all the lights and maybe watch television. Does he have a television? He must.

I leave my shoes and socks next to my bed and walk down the stone steps in my bare feet. I've already gone up and down the stairs twice now, and I'm starting to learn where all the cracks and grooves are, where to shift my weight to keep my gait even. As I get to the bottom landing, I follow the dim light through the entryway and past the living room. I can hear typing coming from a room at the back of the house, and there's a flickering light from the crack in the door. I walk up to it quietly and look in.

Mr. Schiller has finally taken off his suit and tie and is wearing a plain brown sweater. It's thin, like cashmere, and it looks soft. I wonder if anything he wears is in color. He's sitting at a big writing desk in what looks like an office. He has a laptop open in front of him, and he leans in studying the screen. He's wearing glasses now, and they make him look softer. The glasses and the sweater together have the effect of making him look like an English professor instead of like an organized crime boss.

"Mr. Schiller?" I say. It comes out so quietly I doubt he'll hear me, but he looks up right away.

"Natalie," he says. He takes off his glasses and looks at me. "Is there something I can do for you?"

I waver on the threshold. Maybe I shouldn't have come down here. Maybe this room is private. He's not an English professor, after all. He is an organized crime boss.

"No, I'm fine," I say. I take a step back into the darkness. A minute later I hear him typing again, and I lean closer to take a look through the crack in the door. The blue light from his computer screen reflects off his glasses and makes him look like a giant bug.

Mr. Schiller stands up and crosses the room. When he opens the office door, he finds me still standing there, unable to leave the light. He leans against the doorframe, watching me. I look back up at him.

"I can't sleep," I say. And suddenly I feel like I'm going to start crying. This isn't appropriate, I know, and I wish it didn't matter, but it does. I am too old to crawl into a man's lap like a child, and Mr. Schiller is too young to hold me there. If I were Boris' age it might be okay, or if he were dedushka's age maybe. But I'm not, and he isn't, and I'm all the more alone for it. "Do you know when my mother's coming?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "It won't be for several hours yet," he says.

"Where is she?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller leans his head against the doorframe. "She's about thirty miles off the coast."

"Did you talk to her?" I ask.

"No, she's too far out to receive calls," Mr. Schiller says. He polishes his glasses on the rim of his sweater.

"But then how do you know where she is?" I ask. I can hear my voice cracking, and I fight to stay calm.

Mr. Schiller looks at me for a long moment, as if he's examining a bomb that's about to go off – assessing my volatility. "Would you like to see?" he asks.

I look up at him. I don't know what he means, but I nod.

Mr. Schiller reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my shoulder, pulling me a step into the room with him. He walks me over to his desk and sits down in front of his computer again. He closes the few windows he has open and starts a new one. It has a large black map with a green outline of the coast, and on the map are three blinking green dots. He turns the screen to me. "Your mother," he says. He taps the screen.

"Is this – some kind of tracking software?" I ask.

He holds up his hand, placating. "It's for her protection, as well as mine."

I stare at the green dots on the screen. They're blinking so slowly that if I look away I might miss that they're blinking at all. I watch the green dots until they start to swim together, and I realize that even these digital lightning bugs are making me cry. Even these dots that don't mean a thing remind me of how far away my mother is.

"Mr. Schiller," I say. And the tears are coming down too fast now for me to pretend they aren't there anymore.

Mr. Schiller pushes his chair back a little and looks at me. He cocks his head as if he's studying me – examining what could be a new species of butterfly. He puts his hand out a little, and for a minute I think he might rest it on my back, but then he hesitates and shifts it to the desk. When I don't say anything else, he says, "What is it, Natalie? Tell me." His voice isn't particularly gentle when he speaks to me, but there's something in it that there isn't when he speaks to Vincent or his guards or even to my mother on the phone.

"I," I say. I take in a shaky breath. "Thank you – for coming to get me and everything – I mean, I know my mother can't be here right now," I say. And the tears are coming into my eyes so fast they burn them. "But maybe it would be better," I say.

Mr. Schiller sits up a little and tilts his head a bit more so that he can look into my face. His hand fidgets without moving on the desk, and I wonder if now he'll put his hand on my back.

"Maybe I should just go back – I mean, maybe I should go to dedushka's or go home with my Uncle Irwin," I say.

Mr. Schiller tilts his head the other way and reaches out toward a second chair behind his desk. He puts his hand on the edge of the seat and pulls it over so that it's facing his chair. He wraps a hand around my arm, and his hand is warm and comforting. He guides me into the chair, and after I'm seated, he pulls it a little closer to himself, until our knees almost touch.

He leans in close to me and levels his eyes on mine. "Your Uncle Irwin," Mr. Schiller says. He nods toward the computer screen that's now been turned away from me on the desk. "He's driving one of the boats. And your – dedushka?" he says. He raises his eyebrows, and I nod. "He has taken your brothers some place far from here – some place – safe."

"Safe?" I ask. I stare at Mr. Schiller for long moment. "What do you mean 'some place safe'?"

Mr. Schiller presses his lips together, deepening his dimples until they curve around his mouth like parentheses. He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I have to focus on my breathing to keep this shaky feeling from cracking me apart. "You know that we work with some dangerous people, your mother and I."

I nod, and the feeling of it is heavy.

"The . . . transaction we have been conducting has run into some complications, and your mother felt that it would be best to send them away until our business is concluded," Mr. Schiller says.

"Away to where? And for how long?" I ask. My face feels numb. I flash back to the chill – to the memory, the feeling I got when I'd hide around the corner from Gabriel – only this time, he doesn't find me. This time when I look around the corner, he is gone.

"I don't know where," Mr. Schiller says.

I feel myself sinking, like I'm falling through the chair into a hole. I think Mr. Schiller sees it too, or else I actually am falling, because he puts his hand on top of both of mine in my lap to stop me. When I look up at him, I realize I've looked down. His hand is heavy on top of mine, and it anchors me here.

"But it won't be long," he says. He shakes his head once – a promise. "Our business will be done in a few days time. You'll see them then, maybe even before. It depends on what your mother has planned."

"When is my mother coming back?" I ask. I sound like a broken record, I know, but I'm too scared to care.

Mr. Schiller tilts his head and looks at me. Then, even though it looks the same, he turns the screen with the three blinking dots on it back toward me. He gives me the same answer again. "It won't be for several hours yet."

I stare at the three green dots – at our three boats out in the black ocean. One of those dots is Uncle Irwin. One of those dots is my mother.

* * *

My hands move without my mind, heating milk, adding powders. It's something my mother used to make for me when I was young and couldn't sleep. I used to wonder, standing by the wooden kitchen table watching her, whether I would ever make it for my children – whether I would ever make it at all. These days, if I can't sleep, I simply have a drink. A warm cognac or sweetened absinthe will do the trick. But I can't offer her one of those.

I'm not sure why I try so hard to soothe her. I could send her back upstairs – tell her to be quiet. But her tiny hands seem always to be reaching for me. And her eyes, huge and round like a doe's, seem to pin me in my place. I smile at nothing as I pour the hot milk – steaming and liquid smooth into the cup.

I expect to find her where I'd left her – staring into the computer screen at the map. But instead, she has made herself at home. She is perusing the bookshelves along the wall behind my desk. She is so small she has to stand on her toes to reach the higher shelves and even then, there are several she can't reach. I smile again as I watch her through the crack in the door.

She selects a book, bound in Italian red leather. The cover is worn and darkened at the edges. She runs her fingertips whisper light over the gold lettering on the cover, and I know exactly how it feels to her.

* * *

He gives me something sweet to drink. He tells me it's like hot chocolate, but it doesn't taste like it, not really. It's warm and nutty, like hazelnut, and it has a touch of mint. He tells me that it'll help me sleep, and I wonder if he means he's drugged it. Strangely, I don't care anymore. I'm tired, and I want to sleep. I want to sleep, and I'm sick of being scared.

He gestures to the book in my hands, and I pass it to him. He smiles at the cover and reads it out loud. He asks me if I've read it. I shake my head, and my hair falls into my eyes. I'm so tired, I sit down on the couch. The sofa is smooth leather, as worn and soft as the cover of the book he's holding.

He smiles at me and tells me to sit down. He takes out a blanket from a low cabinet against the wall and shakes it out, drapes it over me. Then he sits down in the corner of the couch, leaning back like he did in the car. He asks me if I want him to read to me.

I feel my cheeks warming a little. No one has read to me since I was Boris' age, but I want to hear the sound of the words. I want to hear him reading to me so that I can close my eyes and know that he is still there. I nod, but I don't look at him until he opens the cover of the book and starts reading.

The words blur together, and I listen to the sound of his voice. I close my eyes, even though I'm still holding the cup, and take sips of the warm liquid without looking. After a while, I feel him taking the cup from me, and when I open my eyes, he's placed it on the table.

"Did you drug me?" I ask. My voice is heavy and sleepy.

Mr. Schiller laughs. "No, I didn't."

"Would you tell me if you did?" I ask. I open my eyes and look up at him.

He is smiling at me, and the dimples in his cheeks curve around his mouth. "Yes, my dear, I would."

I smile back at him and close my eyes. I scoot closer to him and lean down, resting my head on the warm shoulder of his sweater, but it's too high for me and I want to curl up, so I lay my head down on the center of his chest instead. I can feel his heart beating against my cheek, and I bring my legs up so that they're curled into his lap. He freezes, and I think that I should move, but I've just gotten comfortable. He wraps an arm around my back, but he's so awkward it makes me laugh. He fidgets with the blanket, pretending to fix it where it lays over me, and then wraps his arm around me again. This time, he squeezes me tight, and I smile against the front of his chest. I close my eyes and listen, feeling the deep rumble of his voice against my face. I listen to him read to me in a language I can't understand.

* * *

The second her head touches my shoulder, she begins to fall asleep. This girl who has never seen me before tonight – who met me believing that I had murdered her father – is now sleeping as soundly on my chest as a baby in her mother's arms. I'm not used to holding children. I haven't done it in a long time. But she has a way that makes me move to provide for her before I even fully realize what she wants.

I sit reading to her for a long time, long after she has fallen asleep. I don't think she understood what I was saying, but I do think the closeness and the reading comforted her. I am afraid if I stop reading, she'll wake up. But my nagging fear is that I want her to wake up – so I'll have an excuse to keep on reading.

* * *

When I wake up the first time, he is still holding me so I fall right back asleep. When I wake up the second time, I don't feel him, and I lift my head up looking for him. "Mr. Schiller?" I say. My voice is a croak. I feel his hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm.

"I'm here," he says.

And I close my eyes again. The third time I wake up, I have to call him twice before he answers. He's sitting in an armchair at the head of the couch, and I struggle against the blanket until I feel his hand again, warm on my shoulder.

The fourth time I wake up and call his name, he is standing behind the couch drinking a small cup of coffee. He puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it, but I fight sleep because he's standing too close to the doorway, and I'm afraid if I fall back asleep again, he'll walk out.

"Don't leave," I say. I struggle to sit up.

Mr. Schiller walks around to the front of the couch and lays his hand back on my shoulder. He rubs it – heavy and warm. "I won't," he says. He leans close to me, and I can smell the warm scent of coffee on his breath.

But I don't believe him. "Please, don't leave," I say. I close my eyes again, but I'm still fighting it. "Please, please don't leave."

"I won't," he says again. And he rubs my shoulder harder.

I struggle for another minute and then give up.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry about the re-post for chapters 2 and 3. I just got my copy of the DVD and realized I spelled Corina wrong. I also made a couple of small changes to chapter 3 and forgot I could just use the "update/replace option" instead of deleting and re-uploading the chapter.**

**Also, thank you all so much for your responses to this story, your reviews, critiques and suggestions! I am blown away, thank you =) So, here is chapter 4 – dedicated to Lady of Glencairn, who gave me fantastic feedback about describing Schiller and about Natalie and Schiller's interaction. =) Thank you, and I hope you all like it!**

* * *

When I open the front door, she is standing on the step with her hands deep inside the pockets of her black coat. Her eyes are the same clear blue as the sky, but there are deep lines around them. She steps past me into the house, and there are salt crystals in her hair. She smells like the sea, and she lists when she gets near me, almost falling against my chest. I reach out my hand to steady her, and she gives me a brief, quick flash of a smile – more relief than gratitude. It's one second less she'll have to spend righting herself before she can get to her daughter.

* * *

I don't know what I expected when Schiller texted me the address. I knew I wouldn't be going to his office downtown, but I hadn't expected that he'd given me his address – his real address – until I saw the house. It is stone and dark wood set on an overlook, far from everything else and rising up out of the morning fog like a Buddhist temple. It is first light when I park my car in the circular driveway, and the sun hasn't burned off the mist on the ground, like low-lying clouds that have gotten lost, like things far from home where they won't be safe.

I almost fall when I get out of the car, but it's not from driving the Corina all night. My footsteps sound loud as I walk up the driveway, and I have to struggle not to run. My heart is beating too fast for that, and my hands and feet feel numb. I stumble again when I walk up the stone steps. They're raw stone – shale, I think – uneven and hewn right from their source. Water the size of a small egg collects in their shallow dips. The door deadens the sound of my knock – it's dark mahogany, the kind Evan wanted to get and I wouldn't let him. I said I wanted our children to grow up surrounded by light.

I don't know who I expected to see – a henchman, a maid? – but it is Schiller, himself, who opens the door for me. I stare at him for a second, stunned. His hair is ruffled, and his face is warmed, reddened, maybe from sleep, maybe from the press of a pillow against his face. But his eyes are bright and alert, and there are lines on his face almost rivaling mine, making me think that maybe he hasn't slept either. He's wearing blue striped pajama pants that are rolled up at the hems over bare feet. It's hard to imagine anything being too long for him, he's so tall.

I try not to stare at him as I step into the house, but I lose my balance again as I'm coming through the doorway and have to put my hand out to stop myself. My hand and then the length of my forearm brush up against the soft cashmere of his sweater, and his solidness and warmth make me not want to pull away. I feel his arm wrap tight around my back and practically lift me up over the last step. I keep moving like a ship toward a beacon, but my hand lingers on his chest until I'm too far away to touch.

"Where is she?" I ask. It's the first thing I've said to him, not even "thank you" when he caught my balance for me.

I start weaving toward the stairway, and Schiller must be tired because he doesn't say anything to stop me. Instead, his arm goes tight around my left side. He steps up behind me and places his right hand on my hip, moving me away from the stairs in a different direction.

I start to apologize, thinking maybe he doesn't want me traipsing all over his house, maybe he wants to get Natalie and bring her to me. But he shakes his head, dispelling the formality. It's too early to be verbal, I guess. He steers me to the right, through a room that looks like a receiving room, with long, rectangular windows across the front. He keeps his hand on my back until we reach a door at the back of the room and pushes it open slowly for me to enter.

His change in pace suggests to me that Natalie is in there, but I don't see her when I step into the room. It's an office, lined on three sides with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a fireplace with a small fire burning in it on the fourth. I turn to look at Schiller over my shoulder and, again, he places his hand on my back. He walks me around the corner of a sofa, and my legs turn to lead at the exact moment I want to sprint forward. It's the same feeling I got when I saw her for the first time at the hospital. After all that agony, when I was unbearably excited to hold her, my limbs got so heavy I could hardly move them and they had to hand her to Evan first.

She's so tiny and looks so soft, lying beneath a thin blanket on the couch. Her little face is pressed to a pillow and her hand lies on its back close to her chin. I cover my mouth when I hear a strangled sob escape me, and I feel like she's ripping her way from me again.

Natalie startles and raises her head, a thick mask of silken hair covering her face. But it's not my name she calls.

"Mr. Schiller?" Natalie says. And her voice holds a note a panic that stops me. "Mr. Schiller?" she says again, louder this time, her eyes searching blindly for him in the dim light.

Schiller is a brush of warmth against my side as he steps past me and kneels down on the floor in front of my daughter. His hand comes to rest naturally on her shoulder, and he murmurs to her in a voice so low I almost can't hear. "I'm here," he says.

And she wraps her arms around him, her face coming to rest on his shoulder. She relaxes into him, just like when I held her as a baby, and closes her eyes with a rush of relief. I stare at them, rooted to my spot.

"Natalie," he says.

And she doesn't respond, except to rub her face a little against his shoulder. She's almost asleep again.

"Natalie, there's someone here to see you," he says.

She raises her head and then she sees me. I smile so hard it hurts, and the look in her eyes puts everything into motion again, even the tears on my face. I reach for her, even as she springs up from the couch, the blanket falling away and tangling around her legs. I wrap her up in my arms and feel her press her whole self against me harder than she ever has before.

* * *

My mother smells like the ocean, and her coat is damp with salt spray and morning mist. I want to tell her that. I want to ask her if she is alright. But I can't speak because I'm crying too hard, so I press my mouth into her shoulder as close as I can. I feel Mr. Schiller come up behind me. He picks up the blanket that has fallen to the floor and folds it loosely, laying it over the back of the couch. I want to grab him too, to hold onto him, but my mother's arms are wrapped around me so tight I can't move mine.

He moves away from us and goes to stand in front of the picture window, on the opposite side of the room beside his desk. He's too far away from me now, but I don't know how to bring him back so I just stand there.

My mother's hand is coursing through my hair, and the sound of fear in her voice almost breaks me. I've never seen her cry this hard before, not even when daddy died. And I clutch onto her so much harder, wishing I could un-see everything that I had seen in the last day – my Uncle Mike paying someone to kidnap me, my mother so scared she is shaking, myself with nothing to protect me.

* * *

I hold her for as long as I dare, longer even – until the sun rises slowly through the window at Schiller's back. He doesn't leave, doesn't even sit down. He just stands, his back to the window, facing us, his eyes quiet like he's listening rather than looking.

"Mom?" Natalie says.

She sits back a little, and I let her, but I catch both her hands and hold them in mine. I kiss her fingertips.

"Mom, where are Gabriel and Boris? Mr. Schiller said you sent them away," Natalie says.

I look over my shoulder at Schiller. He raises his eyebrows, as if to say, why shouldn't I have told her?

"Baby, they're at dedushka's cabin," I say. I don't want to say more in front of Schiller, but Natalie knows right away what I'm talking about.

"When are they coming back?" she asks.

"In a few days," I say. I pass my hand down her cheek. "But I'm taking you out there today. We have to leave soon, baby. It'll take a while to get there."

Natalie shakes her head. "But what about you? I thought you guys had business?" she says. Her glance encompasses Schiller and me.

Again, I look at Schiller. What exactly has he been telling my daughter? "Sweetheart, we do, but things are getting complicated, and I need you to stay with your brothers at dedushka's for a little while."

"Mom, no," Natalie says. She grabs onto my hands tight, eyes wild.

"Baby, it's just for a few days," I say.

"No!" Natalie says.

"You'll be home soon," I say.

"I'm not going to leave you," Natalie says. She is clutching my fingers so tight they hurt.

"Natalie, I know you're scared, but this is . . ."

"I can't lose you too!" Natalie says.

She dissolves into sobs, and I feel like someone has punched me so hard in the stomach that I can't breathe. My mouth hangs open, and my eyes search too, looking for a way to put back everything that has been taken from my girl.

"Natalie," I whisper. And tears start to slide down my face too. I hold her hands, clutch them in mine and kiss her knuckles where they are white from holding onto me. "You won't, my love, my precious girl. I'm not going to leave you, ever."

"You can't go," Natalie says. She is shaking her head as if she doesn't even hear me. "You can't go, mom. You can't go."

"Baby," I say. I cup her tender face in my hand and feel it shaking like it's about to shatter. "I have to."

"No!" Natalie says. She screams the word out and shoves my hands down like she's shattering glass across the floor. "I won't go! I won't!" Her eyes are wild – furious – filled with the spark of Evan's and the burn of mine and something that is all her own. I stare at this marvelous creature like she's a wild thing I haven't seen before. I'm so stunned I almost laugh.

"Sweetheart, you can't come with me. I have to take the boats out every night," I say.

"Then I'll stay at home. Or I'll stay with Aunt Dina," Natalie says.

"You can't, baby. It isn't safe for you to be alone or even with Dina," I say.

Natalie stares at me, and her face is fixed. Then she jumps off the couch so quickly I think she's about to fall. "Mr. Schiller," Natalie says. She abandons me and crosses the room to him. She reaches out and lays her hands on the outsides of his arms, where they are folded across his chest, stepping close to him.

His eyes widen and meet mine over Natalie's shoulder.

"Mr. Schiller," Natalie says again. And her voice is softer, like she's coaxing a scared animal.

He brings his chin down, focusing hard on Natalie's face.

"Mr. Schiller, would it be alright," Natalie says. Her fingers curl at the tips – a butterfly kiss against his sleeve. "Would it be alright if I stayed with you for a few days?"

She doesn't hedge it, doesn't explain, doesn't make excuses. She doesn't promise to be good or to stay out of his way. She simply says it and looks up at him with those big brown eyes. And I can see that he doesn't stand a chance.

* * *

I fix my eyes onto hers, lowering my face until she's right up against me. But she doesn't back down, not even a little. Her eyes stare into mine – wide and trusting – the eyes of a baby doe. When she makes her request, I puff out my cheeks just a little as if I'm still debating it. And I find it hard to believe when her father was alive that he could deny her anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks again for all your reviews and feedback! This chapter is dedicated to Aragorns Arwen, who has been super supportive and has given me tons of excellent suggestions :) There will be more Marta and Schiller scenes to come! =) Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

Schiller's hand on my arm is a slight and steady pressure as he guides me over to stand in front of him at the window. At first I think he's going to yell at me about Natalie, but he wants to know how things went with the dry run. I glance over my shoulder at my daughter sitting on the couch. I don't know what he knows about teenagers, but he must be aware that their hearing doesn't diminish with youth. She looks back at me for a long moment, but rolls off the couch before I say anything. My eyes follow her to the door of the office, and my chest aches the moment she is out of sight.

"Mrs. Walraven," Schiller says.

And I feel that gentle touch again – a quiet tugging on my arm turning me back to him. He is normally so careful not to touch me. Whenever he's done it before, it's been a definitive act – deliberate. But these touches have been so quiet, so continuous, almost insidious, and I wonder if it's being in his home, if it's being tired that brings his guard down. Or is it something else? Is it what's happened to me with Natalie – losing her? Or is it Natalie, herself – her effect on him?

"Mrs. Walraven," he says again. And he turns it on – that magnetic, brooding energy – that intensity that's impossible to turn away from. The old nervousness inching in against the new terror from losing Natalie is so familiar it is almost comforting. It takes a second for me to focus in on his face, but the moment I do, he holds me rapt.

I open my mouth to speak, but I can't seem to form the words. Schiller softens his focus on me, lowering his eyes until I can concentrate. "It'll take two nights, but we can do it," I say. I sound steadier than I feel. I glance up at Schiller's eyes, and they're hooded again, almost gentle. "If we fill each boat to capacity, they'll run slower, but we can make it."

"There can be no mistake . . ." Schiller says.

"I know," I say, cutting him off. I level my eyes onto his. "I know."

Schiller nods and runs his thumbnail lightly over the line of his eyebrow and as his focus draws in, his walls come down. He looks over my shoulder at the door to the study and then steps in closer, dropping his voice. He stands so close to me that he doesn't look me in the eye. His mouth is a breath away from my forehead when he speaks. "She – hasn't been sleeping – your daughter," he says. He drops his eyes down a fraction so that he's looking into mine.

I stop breathing. Did they hurt her? Would Mike have hurt her?

Schiller leans in and catches my eye again. My nerves are shot through, and every movement toward or away makes my body hum like a violin string. Then he raises his eyes so that he is looking just over my head. "Why don't you take her upstairs? Get some rest before going back to the marina," he says.

His voice is uncharacteristically soft – gentle even. And I'm surprised at how careful he's being. I nod. It's a mechanical movement, like a bird in a clock turned by gears.

We find Natalie in the room outside the study, sitting on the bench of a grand piano. The lid is up, and she runs her fingers lightly across the keys. I have an image of her at six years old playing her first recital in her piano teacher's house. I had wished that night I could have frozen time – when she was smiling, giddy with excitement, free. I wish today that I could have frozen that moment even more – before she had lost her father, before she'd been betrayed by Mike and before I'd had to leave her with the most dangerous man I know. She looks up at me from her spot at the piano, and she gives me a tiny smile. My baby – unbroken – brave.

Schiller stops walking beside me and reaches out his arm toward Natalie across the room. She comes to him without question and stands beside him as he slips his arm around her shoulders. What exactly have I done in bringing her here?

He leans down and talks softly into her ear, his mouth so close his lips brush her hair. My arms ache to pull her away from him and back to me. Natalie nods, listening to him with an intensity I seldom see in her unless she's drawing. He's dangerous, but how can I tell her that when I've brought her here to keep her safe? Has her world become so precarious that there is no one left to protect her except for him?

* * *

I pull my mother up the steps, and she must be tired because she feels like dead weight. I tug her along behind me down the hallway and toward my room. It takes me a second to realize why she's resisting. There's no light up here because all the doors are closed, and she doesn't know her way in the dark. I pull her through the only open doorway – the one I left open when I went downstairs. The covers are still thrown back, and I wonder if they'll feel softer with her here.

She takes off her jacket and drapes it over a chair. Her hair is stiff with salt spray, but instead of going into the bathroom to wash it off, she just lays down in the bed with me. She lies on her side facing me, holding both my hands inside of hers.

"Baby, are you alright? Did anyone hurt you?" she asks.

There's a spark of fear in her eyes – one that I think can ignite quickly into anger.

"I'm okay," I say. "No one hurt me."

"They didn't do anything to you, did they?" she asks.

"No, it wasn't like that," I say. "The other guy – he yelled at me, but he didn't hurt me. And most of the time I was with Uncle Mike."

My mother's jaw tightens, and lines appear around her mouth. She looks like she wants to say something but doesn't.

"Mom," I say. I press my lips together and rub my face against the pillow. "What's going to happen to Uncle Mike?"

My mother takes a deep breath and lets it out. "You don't have to worry about him," she says. "He won't hurt you ever again." She cups her hand around my face, and her skin is cool and soft.

"That's not what I meant," I say. I look at her for a long time. "Is dedushka going to kill Uncle Mike?"

The rise of my mother's chest freezes when I ask this question. "I know who dedushka is," I say. "What we are."

My mother takes a breath, rubbing my hand against hers. "No," she says. She says it very quietly. "He promised Mike would not be killed, and dedushka always keeps his promises."

I nod and look into my mother's blue eyes, so pale in this light they are almost gray like Mr. Schiller's. It's as if the color is rubbing off of her the longer we stay here.

My mother looks down at our joined hands and takes a slow breath before she speaks. "And Mr. Schiller, has he – has he been nice to you?"

I don't know why the question catches me off guard. I know what Mr. Schiller does. But it's become harder to imagine him doing the things I know he must do – things I think my whole family must do.

"He's been nice to me," I say. But she still looks scared. "He read to me and made me hot chocolate," I say. I smile at her, and my smile turns into a laugh.

My mother stares at me, stunned, but then she laughs too. I don't tell her I think the cocoa may have been drugged.

"But I still wish you'd let me take you to dedushka's," my mother says. Her eyes on mine are serious, and for a minute I picture myself, sitting outside wrapped in a maroon blanket, drinking tea on the deck of dedushka's lake house in Colorado. The feeling of wholeness I get when I know that Gabriel will be near fills me with a longing so great it's like a vacuum tearing me apart. But I don't let myself stay there, not even for a second because I'm afraid that I won't be strong enough to pull out of it. And then my mother will be here all alone.

"I'll be fine here," I say. I shake my head – resolute. "I'm not going _anywhere_ without you."

* * *

I stand over my daughter's sleeping form, her body wrapped up in a blanket. She fought sleep after I woke her to tell her I had to leave but finally gave into it again. I know I should go – know Irwin will be waiting for me at the marina dry dock so that we can secure it for holding the guns. But the thought of leaving of Natalie again fills me with a physical ache I don't know if I will be able to stand.

Schiller hovers in the doorway watching me. He knows it's past time for me to go. Any hint of softness I thought I saw in him earlier is so far gone I find it hard to imagine it'd been there. "Mrs. Walraven," Schiller says. His voice is a razor's edge.

"I'm going," I say. It comes out almost a whisper. I can't seem to get myself to move.

Schiller sighs audibly and narrows his eyes on me. I can tell it by seeing his posture out of the corner of my eye. "Mrs. Walraven," he says. His voice gets darker. It is a warning all on its own.

I open my mouth to say "I know", but what good would that do when I can't bring myself to move?

Schiller approaches me – steely, cold. He stands directly behind me, so close I can feel the fabric of his shirt against the back of my jacket. He radiates a threat, and in any other situation, I wouldn't turn my back on something so dangerous. He takes my arm in his hand, but there's nothing gentle or casual about his touch now. It has returned to its former state of deliberateness. His hold on me is like a vice grip, not tight enough to hurt, but it would be if I resisted it.

"It is time – for you to go," he says.

I can tell that he is angry because he's overpronouncing his words. But his coldness doesn't make it easier to go. How can I leave my daughter with this man? I turn to look at Schiller over my shoulder. I have to twist tightly because he's holding my arm in place. "Mr. Schiller," I say. My voice is quiet and roughened at the edges.

He squints his eyes, as if he's trying to anticipate my next move.

"My daughter," I say. It is all I can say because I can feel tears welling up inside of me.

Schiller squints again and presses his lips together into a scowl. He sighs, and his mouth twitches the way it does when he's lost patience. But then his eyes find mine again he sighs more quietly. "She'll be fine," he says. "I'll take care of her." He looks at my forehead when he speaks, but when he's done, he looks right into my eyes.

I take a breath and feel that aching tug again, but I let him pull me back until I'm almost leaning against his chest. He walks me to door of my daughter's bedroom and doesn't let go until she is out of my sight.


	6. Chapter 6

I walk down the stairs, my bare toes searching for the same grooves I found in them last night. It's so quiet in this house, almost like being in the woods when I used to go hiking with my dad and one of us startled all the birds into being quiet. I smile. We weren't very good hikers, me and my dad.

I find Mr. Schiller sitting at a small table in the kitchen next to a bay window. There's a big mirror on the wall beside it. He's dressed for work already, in a shirt and tie, his jacket hanging off the back of his chair. He is reading a newspaper and drinking one of those tiny cups of coffee, and I wonder how often he has to refill it. I lean my head against the kitchen doorframe, watching him. His shirt today is light blue, a shade paler than robin's egg. He looks softer without his jacket on, more tender to the touch. Yesterday's suit would have been oil paint on canvas, but today's would be pastels on paper.

He looks up at me and smiles, but it is a more formal smile than the one he wore last night. "Natalie," he says. He reaches forward and puts his hand on the seat of a chair at his side, pushing it out for me. "Come sit down."

I cross the room to him and sit down in the chair. The morning sunlight makes his eyes look even paler.

He pushes a plate of croissants closer to me and a glass carafe filled with orange juice that catches the sunlight.

"Thanks," I say.

He gives me a fleeting smile and turns back to his paper.

I pour myself some juice, and it is very sweet. It tastes like it's fresh-squeezed instead of from a bottle.

"I have to take a meeting at my office in an hour," Mr. Schiller says. He glances at a gold wristwatch with shiny metal links for the band. "But after that," he says. He fixes his eyes on mine. "We'll have some time if you want to stop by your house, pick up some things."

"My house?" I say. I've torn off the corner of a croissant, and there's chocolate inside it. I stop moving before it gets to my mouth. "I can go home?"

Mr. Schiller gives a shrug – noncommittal. "If I go with you, it shouldn't be a problem."

I look at Mr. Schiller for a long moment. I squeeze the bread together between my fingers before putting it in my mouth. "What can I get?" I ask.

"Anything you'd like," Mr. Schiller says.

The thought of my house fills me with a sudden ache, and I want to tell him what I'd like is to bring the whole thing.

"Is there anything you need before then?" he asks.

"My phone," I say, without hesitating.

Mr. Schiller's lips quirk together into a small smile. "Well, we can get it when we go over there this afternoon. But until then, you can feel free to use mine," he says. He's smiling like he's amused, and my face starts to feel warm.

I don't know if he knows quite what he's offering me. Does he really want his phone number registering on my friends' phones, on my brother's? Does he know I can use it go on Facebook? Would he know what to do with the Twitter bird? I smile too, and his smile backs off a little.

* * *

Vincent drives us back into the city, and Mr. Schiller and I sit in the back seat not talking. I look out the window at the ocean, and I wonder if Mr. Schiller thinks it's beautiful too or if he's gotten too used to seeing it. I slide my window down to feel the ocean air. Mr. Schiller looks at me, and I get the feeling that he never opens the windows on a nice day, but he doesn't ask me to close it so I don't.

We go in through an underground garage, and Mr. Schiller puts his hand on my back when he walks me toward a bay of elevators inside a glass enclosure. He presses the button for the fortieth floor. We shoot up so fast my ears pop, and my body sways a little to keep my balance. But Mr. Schiller stands perfectly still, as if these are sea legs all of his own.

He puts his hand on my back again when the doors open, and he gives me a small smile when I look up at him. He applies a light pressure to my back, and I let it push me off the elevator. The office inside has a similar look to his house, and it comforts me in a weird way.

There's a man waiting for us inside. He must be Mr. Schiller's appointment because he gets nervous the instant he sees us. Mr. Schiller ignores him and, instead, walks me past him to a door at the back of the office. He opens it and leads me inside. There's a big mahogany desk back there and a black leather sofa but not much else.

"I'll be about an hour," Mr. Schiller says.

"That's fine," I say. I wish there were books in here like at his house.

Mr. Schiller gives me a brief smile and heads back toward the office door. But a moment before reaching it, he stops and slips out his phone. He holds it out to me, a smile on his face.

I smile too and walk over, taking it from him. I hold it in both my hands. "Thank you," I say. I can feel my cheeks getting warm.

"You're welcome," he says. The light glints off his eyes at me.

I watch him until he closes the door, then I carry the phone over to the window. I think about texting Gabriel first or checking to see if he's been on Facebook, but I think it would be safer if I waited to get my own phone. So I download Angry Birds instead.

* * *

I open the door and stand in the doorway, too tired to even walk in. Some days I have been doing this so long it comes easily. Other days it takes a lot. I lean against the doorframe, pushing my jacket back and letting my hands sag into my pockets. I puff up my cheeks and let out a breath. It's something my father taught me, to blow out your tension like air out of a balloon.

Natalie is lying on the sofa beneath the window, her blonde hair splayed out against all the dark. She is a small, colorful creature that looks out of place in this steel cage. Her knees are hooked over the arm of the sofa and her big, brown eyes are ever moving across the screen. She looks up at me and smiles, holding up my phone in one hand.

"Angry Birds. You ever play it?" she says. She swings her legs down onto the floor and sits up.

I feel myself smiling even though I try not to. I shake my head and rest my hand against my hip.

She stands up and crosses the room to me, holding up the phone. "I leveled you up," she says, handing it back to me.

I have no idea what she's saying, but I thank her because it sounds like a gift.

* * *

I get nervous when we get back into the car. I know I should feel better. We're going home – it's what I said I wanted. But home isn't just the house – not just the building. Home is the people who are supposed to be inside it. What will it be like to stand in my living room in the middle of the day, without Boris' game on the television screen, without the hum of the refrigerator when Gabriel stands in front of it? The thought of my mother's room standing empty almost breaks me, and I scoot a little closer across the seat toward Mr. Schiller. I don't know if he'll go inside with me. I don't know if I'm more afraid that he will or he won't. I don't want him to see me breaking apart, but I also don't want to be alone.

It's a funny thing being the middle child. My father thought I would be jealous when Boris was born, but it was the opposite. I craved togetherness, and having an older brother and then a younger one meant that I never had to be alone.

My heart picks up its pace when we get into my neighborhood. I look out the window at the road that leads to my school. I'm sitting almost in the middle of the backseat now, and I lay my hand down on top of Mr. Schiller's as we drive. I can see him trying to look at my face out of the corner of my eye, but I keep my eyes trained on the green trees outside the window. My heart takes a dip – a moment of zero gravity when I see the house, and I squeeze his hand so hard I think it might hurt.

Vincent stops the car and leaves it idling for a minute, but when neither of us moves, he turns it off.

"Natalie," Mr. Schiller says. He says it very quietly and goes to move his hand. I feel it shift, but I don't let it go. "Would you . . ." Mr. Schiller looks into the rearview mirror, and his eyes seem to catch on Vincent's. He must be nervous if he's looking to that guy for help. "Would you – like me to come in with you?"

I turn to him and open my mouth. I even take a breath, but then nothing comes out. My voice works and so does my mouth. It's my brain that has nothing to say.

I can feel my hand sweating where it's clamped around Mr. Schiller's. Finally, I nod my head. He nods back at me and crinkles his eyes at the corners.

Vincent gets out and opens the car door for me. I slide out but don't take his hand when he offers it. Instead, my hand stays wrapped around Mr. Schiller's, so tight he's forced to climb out my door.

* * *

She holds tight to my hand until we've walked up the front steps, until she's forced to let go to open the door. She retrieves the key from the mouth of a stone turtle and turns it so slowly inside the lock I wonder if she's using enough force. When the door opens, she takes my hand again, and we walk together through the entranceway. She leads me through the house to the base of the stairs and then hesitates, turning to look at me. She looks like she doesn't want to let go of my hand, but like she doesn't want me coming upstairs with her either. I am not sure where this anxiety comes from, but I feel a twinge of something deep when I see how hard it is for her to let go.

"Do you want a tour?" she asks.

I suppress a smile at her repeating my question back to me. I nod, and she flushes, looking relieved. She keeps her hand in mine and starts tugging me through the house after her. She takes me to the living room. All across the mantle, everywhere I look, there are pictures – pictures of her, of her brothers, her mother and father. She stops, staring at them, holding my hand tight. She doesn't say anything, and I let her think. She steps closer to me and wraps her other hand around the back of mine. I don't think she knows she's doing it.

"Did you," she says. Her voice cracks. "Did you know my father?" She turns to me and looks up. Her face is open. She is standing so close I feel that I can see every thought in her head.

"No," I say. I say it quietly. I wish I had something more to say.

"Did you ever meet him?" she asks. She leans into me until our arms touch.

"No, I didn't," I say.

She nods and turns back to the pictures. She takes a breath and then continues to walk.

* * *

It's better when I'm upstairs in my room. I'm used to being alone in there so I don't feel so exposed. I gather up some clothes, some art supplies and my sketchpad. It's hard to know what to bring – I want my oils, pastels and acrylics, but I think I should bring my colored pencils so I'll have something less messy. I sling a bag over my shoulder and head down the back stairs toward the garage. There are some rolled up canvases in there I can fit into my backpack.

"Nat, are you alright? What happened to you?"

I turn around and stop dead in my tracks.

"Uncle Mike?" I say. I stare at him. His clothes are wrinkled, and his hair stands on end. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks frantic. He reaches out his hands like he's about to grab me.

"Oh, Natalie, thank God you're alright," Uncle Mike says. "I didn't know what happened to you. I came back to the room, and you were gone."

I back away when he is just about to reach me, and the expression on his face is pained.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't be scared, please. I've been so worried. I was afraid someone . . ."

"Natalie." It's Mr. Schiller's voice behind me.

I freeze in my spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I've never heard him sound like that before, but I can see now why other people are scared of him. Uncle Mike makes a helpless gesture at Mr. Schiller and looks like he's about to start crying. I turn around – slow – and look at Mr. Schiller.

"Natalie, come here," he says. His voice is low and even, controlled even as Uncle Mike shakes. Mr. Schiller doesn't look at me when he talks. His eyes stay trained on Uncle Mike.

I take a step in his direction, but I stop when I hear Uncle Mike. "Nat, don't," he says. It sounds like a sob. "He'll hurt you."

I stop and look back at Uncle Mike.

"Natalie," Mr. Schiller says. His voice is sterner now. He holds out his hand to me so that I will come to him.

"Nat, please. Do you know who that is?" Uncle Mike says.

I look at Uncle Mike, and I feel like I can't breathe. He's my uncle. He's my godfather. He's taken care of me for as long as I can remember.

"Natalie, come here, please," Mr. Schiller says.

I look at him, and he finally lowers his eyes to meet mine. His expression is hard, his eyes so dark they look black, but I can still feel the warmth of his arm around my shoulder, hear the cadence of his voice when he read to me.

"Angel, no," Uncle Mike whispers.

Tears burn inside my eyes. My dad used to call that Uncle Mike's secret weapon. He could get me to do anything when I was a kid by calling me that, even things I hated like getting a shot. I take another step toward Mr. Schiller, and Uncle Mike releases a breath that sounds like he's crying. I stop where I'm standing and look back at him. "I love you, Uncle Mike," I say. "But I can't go with you. I'm sorry."

"Oh, no, sweetheart," Uncle Mike says. He shakes his head, and I see tears in his eyes. "Don't apologize to me, angel. I don't deserve you." He reaches out his hand to me, the same way Mr. Schiller is doing, but the look on his face is different. Uncle Mike doesn't expect me to come to him. He reaches out, as if he can touch me from where he stands.

Tears slip fast down my face. I feel Mr. Schiller's hands on my shoulders, rubbing them before pulling me close. I look up at Mr. Schiller and grab both his hands in mine. "You promised," I say, even though I know it's not technically true. "You told me you wouldn't hurt Uncle Mike."

Mr. Schiller presses his lips together so tightly pale spots appear at the corners of his mouth. He leans down close to me, so close I can see the brown flecks in his green eyes that are so pale they look gray. He sighs hard and looks at me for a long moment. "So I did," Mr. Schiller says. The words are clipped and overpronouced.

"You should go, Uncle Mike," I say. My eyes dart toward the garage and then back to him.

Uncle Mike stares at me, and I clutch onto Mr. Schiller's hands, as if no harm can come to Uncle Mike with me holding them. He takes a hesitant step and looks at Mr. Schiller. I nod at him, and then he turns and runs. I hold onto Mr. Schiller's hands until Uncle Mike has left the house, and then I turn and bury my face into Mr. Schiller's chest. His shirt is soft and warm like I thought it would be. I press my face into it and start to cry.

He lets me stand there for a long time holding onto him, but he doesn't put his arms around me. Only when I think I might be ready to step away, I feel one of his arms wrap around my back and his other hand curl around the base of my neck. He leans down and rests his chin on the top of my head, and I feel his fingers tangle in my hair. He doesn't say anything to comfort me. He just stands there and lets me cry.

* * *

She sits tucked against my side the whole ride back, so close she is almost in my lap. I tell Vincent to take an extra lap when we get to Embarcadero Drive, and I open the window so she can feel the ocean air on her face. Vincent gives me a look when I do it, but it's worth it to see her smile again.


	7. Chapter 7

At night I carry my sketchpad downstairs to Mr. Schiller's study. He doesn't say anything, just opens the door and lets me in. I curl up on his brown leather sofa, my back propped against the armrest behind me. My hair is damp because I just washed it, and I let it hang off the side of the couch. He sits across from me at the desk, writing things down on a thick stack of paper.

I brought the pastels because that's what I wanted to use, and I figure the couch will be an alright place to use them because if I get chalk dust everywhere I can just wipe it off the leather. Mr. Schiller has taken off his suit jacket and tie, but he still wears the blue shirt from before. I'm glad because that's what I wanted to draw him in.

I tilt my head and start sketching. I use the black chalk to do his outline. It's more severe than the dusty rose I usually use for my mom or the burnt sienna I use for Aunt Dina, but when I soften the lines with my fingertip, it turns into the dove's wing gray that I want. I look up at Mr. Schiller and then down at the pad, adding long blue strokes for his shirt.

My phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside me. I pick it up and swipe my finger across the screen, leaving a trail of chalk dust that settles into the spider web crack that covers the glass. It's hard to read the screen like this, but if I tilt it back and forth I can make out the words.

Gabe: What ru doin?

Nat: Just drawing. u?

Gabe: Playing cards with dedushka :p

Nat: Mom's gonna kill u

Gabe: Have you seen her? She ok?

Nat: Saw her last night for a couple of hours. She seems ok.

Gabe: RU ok?

Nat: Yeah.

Gabe: Where ru?

Nat: I can't really say… mom said not to.

Gabe: How come?

Nat: Same reason as u.

Gabe: …

Nat: How's Boris?

Gabe: He's ok, playing with Luther.

Nat: Does he know about what happened to me?

Gabe: No, didn't tell him.

Nat: Don't tell him. I don't want him to be scared.

Gabe: ok

"What are you doing?" Mr. Schiller asks.

I look at him and realize he's been watching me for a while now. I shrug. "Just texting my brother," I say.

"Ah, your brother Gabriel or Boris?" he asks.

I laugh. "Gabriel," I say. I shake my head. "Boris is too young to have a phone."

Mr. Schiller smiles. "Oh, my mistake," he says. He grins at me. Sometimes I wonder if he is just teasing me, pretending to know less than he does.

"No, actually, I meant that," Mr. Schiller says. He nods toward the sketchpad in my lap.

"This?" I say. I'm about to hold the pad up and then I stop. "I'm just drawing." My phone buzzes again, but I don't look at it.

"Will you show me?" Mr. Schiller asks.

My cheeks get warm. "It's not finished yet," I say.

Mr. Schiller's eyes are soft on me. "Maybe later?" he says.

I smile. "Sure," I say. He turns back to his papers, and I look down at my phone.

Gabe: ru still in CA?

Nat: yeah, Y?

Gabe: thought you might be in AZ with Aunt K

Nat: no

Gabe: ur not at home tho, right?

Nat: no

Gabe: are you with Uncle M?

I look at the phone screen for a long time. I have no idea how to tell my brother this news, and I don't want to tell him at all. But I can't imagine keeping something from him that's so huge.

Uncle Mike isn't Gabriel's godfather. We all have different ones, and Uncle Irwin is Gabriel's. But Uncle Mike is no less a part of our family than Uncle Irwin or Aunt Kat. I reach down and pick up my phone again. I write, "no".

* * *

I feel her eyes on me – light and observant, fast moving and deft like a bird's. I pretend not to notice, and I don't look back until I see her engrossed in her phone. She isn't like what I thought teenagers to be. She isn't brash or dramatic or volatile. She's brave and quiet, strong and intelligent. She has a passion beyond her years. And for all that she's been through in the last twenty-four hours – all that she's lost in the last few months – her tears are silent and swift. Were it not for her nightmares, how difficult she finds it to sleep, I might not be aware of how frightened she is.

Her fingers move across the page with a twitching motion, and I realize that is what she's needed in her hands. She concentrates on the drawing so deeply, I don't know if it would matter if I stared.

* * *

I feel the sketchpad slipping from between my hands, and I wake from a dream with a start.

"It's alright," Mr. Schiller says. His voice is deep and raspy.

"Where are you going?" I ask. I take a hold of his arm.

"It's late. I'm just going to take you upstairs," he says.

"No," I say. I hold on tight.

"Natalie, it's alright. You're safe here," he says.

"No, I want to be with you," I say. I'm so tired I'm talking with my eyes closed, but when he tries to move my hand, it won't budge.

I hear Mr. Schiller sigh. He stops trying to loosen my hand and rubs the back of it. "Natalie," he says. He squeezes my hand.

"Will you read to me? Just for a little bit?" I ask. I'm stalling, and I'm afraid he'll be mad. But after a minute, I hear a soft laugh.

"Alright," he says. He moves me closer to the back of the couch so there will room for him to stretch out beside me. "But only for a little while."

I smile and bring my head to rest on his shoulder. His shirt is smooth and warm under my face. I wrap my arm around his stomach and nestle my head beneath his chin. No one has held me this way since I was a little girl.

Mr. Schiller starts to read, and his voice changes with the new language, getting deeper and smoother at the same time. I wonder what Gabriel would say if he knew where I was, what Uncle Mike was afraid Mr. Schiller would do. He told me that Mr. Schiller would hurt me, but I haven't felt so safe in a really long time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to VMG, who ships Marta and Schiller as hard as I do. :)**

* * *

My arms are shaking by the time Irwin and I slide the last crate into place. I check my watch. 6:40 a.m. I only have three hours until I have to be back here to hand off the first shipment to Johns. Thirty minutes each way to drive to Schiller's means I'll have less than two hours to spend with Natalie.

Irwin squeezes my shoulders from behind and grunts at me before he heads off toward the boats to get a few hours of sleep. I nod back at him. We've been running all night, and I can barely keep my eyes open, but I don't want to miss even a second with Natalie.

"Marta." The voice is strangled, and I don't recognize it at first.

"Just check the last off. I want to lock up," I say. I half turn, barely looking for one of Schiller's minions.

"Marta, it's me." The voice is garbled, strangely cracked.

I turn around, and my face flushes hot. I cross the room in three long steps and shove Mike hard in the chest.

"Marta, please," Mike says. He doesn't try to block my strikes, and he winces when my fists connect. "Marta, I know you must hate me. But what are you doing?"

"What am _I_ doing?" I ask. The question is absurd.

"I mean with Natalie," he says. He holds his arms out to the side. "Marta." The word is a helpless invocation.

"My daughter is none of your concern, not anymore, you useless sack of . . ." I take two steps and raise my fist to hit him again. He leans away from me, but doesn't move his hands. I hesitate, knowing the sting of his face on my knuckles will feel good, but I stop with my hand in the air.

"Marta," Mike says. He shakes his head, eyes pleading, filled with tears. He takes a step closer to me and looks me in the eye. "You took her from me to give her – to him?" His posture is of a man defeated.

My arm gets heavy, and my hand drops to my side. "How do you know . . ."

"I saw her," Mike says. His gaze drops to the ground, and he presses the heel of his hand to his eye. "I saw her with him, Marta. She was with – with Schiller."

I shake my head, my face burning. It's rage and guilt and fear all at once, assaulting me, blinding my senses. "You were the one who took her from me, from her home, from her _family_," I say. "Don't you dare come to me now claiming _you're_ worried."

"Marta, I know what I did. I know. And I will never, ever forgive myself. But Natalie, she can't be with that man. You know as well as I do that she's in danger," Mike says.

"And, what?" I ask. The words snap out with the sharpness, the sting of a taught rubber band. I take a step closer. "Are you telling me that she'd be safer – with _you_?" My voice is so low it comes out like a growl, and Mike winces as if I've just cut him.

Mike shakes his head, eyes red with tears. "I'm not saying I should be the one to have her," he says. He backs away from me, pacing in a tight square. "I know she deserves someone better. But I promise you, I won't go near her. You can take her to our house. Let her stay with Deens, and I swear to you, Marta I swear that I won't go near her."

"You think I'm afraid of you?" I ask. My eyes narrow until the creases at their corners sting like I'm folding paper into them. "You think _that's_ the reason I didn't take her to Dina?" I step closer to him, and the glare in my eyes stops his pacing in its tracks. "Mike, you would be dead right now if I wanted it. I don't have to be afraid of you."

"Then why?" Mike whispers. He stares at me. "Why take her to him and not to us?"

"Mike, what is it that you think I'm doing here?" I hold my arms out to the side and stare at him.

His eyes move from my face to the rest of the dry dock. "I don't know," Mike says. He shakes his head. "Stacking crates?"

I close my eyes. I want to bang my head against the wall. It should be illegal to be this stupid. I open my eyes by degrees. "Mike," I say. My voice is so low it grates. "I left her with Schiller because he is the only person who can protect her from what's going on."

"What's . . . going on," he says. Mike's eyes roam across the crates again. "But what about Andrei?" he asks. He glances around the room, as if he's afraid saying his name can make my father appear.

"He isn't here, and this is none of your concern," I say.

"None of my concern?" Mike says. He looks like he's about to fall apart. "Marta, I know you won't ever trust me again, but you know that I love Natalie. The only reason I'm still here is because I had to know she was alright. I stayed even though Schiller and your father might kill me."

"You're a regular hero, Mike," I say.

"No, that's not what I meant," Mike says. He rakes his hand through his hair. "Marta, I would die before I hurt Natalie. And as awful as I know I am, she is infinitely safer with me than with him. I love her, Marta. You know that at least I would take care of her. You don't know what he would do."

"Let me tell you the things that I know," I say. I step so close to him I have to strain my neck back to stare into his eyes. "I know that you kidnapped my daughter. I know that you left her with a stranger – a street thug – who you paid to tie her up, blindfold and gag her. I know that anything could have happened to her in the time that you were away. And I know that you did it all for _money_." I am so angry I am shaking. "So ask me again why I would rather leave her with Schiller than with you."

Mike scrunches up his face, tears welling to spilling over. I turn my back and walk away. Mike's voice is a whisper behind me. "Marta, you can't trust him. Please."

I wheel on him and cross the distance so fast, his eyes get wide. "What you should know, Mike, is that if you ever come near my daughter again, I will rip your throat out with my hands."

* * *

I drive fast through the early morning traffic, tearing up Embarcadero Drive. My knuckles are white hot from where I am gripping the steering wheel, and I sweat even though I am cold. Mike's words nag at me, claw at my back with the venom of bee stings. He knows nothing about Schiller, but I do. I know his calmness, his logic, his devotion to a smoothly run job. But I know his coldness, his strength, his manipulation too. Which of these characteristics does he show to my daughter? Which of these traits does she feel in his touch? Sweat runs down my back as I speed toward them. What will I find when I get there?

I take a sharp left and then a hard right into Schiller's driveway. I go so fast my tires skid when I stop. My feet are already moving when I hit the pavement, and Schiller's guards make way for me to get through.

"Morning, love," Vincent calls. His chipper tone makes me want to smack him.

"I'm not your love," I growl back.

"Well, that was unnecessary, wasn't it?" he says.

I walk past him without slowing.

"Fine, let yourself in then," he says.

I raise my hand to knock, but then I do as he says and just walk in through Schiller's front door. Why bother to lock it when you have a dozen men standing guard?

I slow my pace when I get inside. The air is quiet and still. I leave my boots by the front door and take the same path I took the previous morning, checking the study first. The door is open a crack and it gives the softest creak when I open it and then again when I push it closed behind me. I move quietly across the red Oriental rug, my feet sinking deep into the nap.

I stop when I see them on the couch. I don't know why this new affection doesn't scare me, but it is guileless in a way that I trust. Schiller is asleep with Natalie on his shoulder, a protective arm wrapped around her back. Her cheeks are pink from sleep, and she breathes light and fast, the breaths of a baby animal. Schiller's cheek is resting against the top of Natalie's head and he breathes with his mouth against her hair.

I sink down onto my knees on the rug beside them. It is so plush it feels like pillows cradling me. The smooth, even plane of Schiller's chest beneath his dress shirt looks so soft it's hard not to want to touch it. I have the urge to lay my hand down and rub his chest to feel its warmth, sliding my fingers under the fold of his collar where he would be the warmest, or to lay my head down in the curve of his neck, my cheek settled in beneath the line of his collarbone. In this spot if I turned my head a tiny fraction, I know his scent would be intensified in the hollow beneath his voice box – somewhere between the salty sweet of his sweat when he's hitting the heavy weight bag and the sharper tang of his body in a suit.

I close my eyes for several long seconds and sway with the effort of not falling asleep here. I don't know how my thoughts turned this way, but I know I have to stop them before they go too far. When I open my eyes, I see that a lock of dark hair has fallen across his forehead, and I have to stop my hand from reaching to brush it away. Instead, I cup my palm around Schiller's shoulder – a concession to my body and mind. I rub it gently, soaking in the warmth that it gives me and wish that I didn't wish for anything else.

"Mr. Schiller," I say. My voice is low and roughened from being near sleep.

Schiller doesn't stir. For a man who does the things he does, he sleeps the heavy sleep of a child.

I smile and let my hand linger. "Mr. Schiller," I say again. And my hand wanders of its own accord, over the soft, warm place on his chest I longed to touch.

Schiller opens his eyes and looks at me – just a sliver of green and then he closes them again. His eyes are hazel; I know from staring into them. But unless you get close, he only shows you the green.

I give up trying to speak and just rub that spot on his chest. I almost hope he doesn't wake so I can keep rubbing it. My eyes are closed when I feel his hand on the back of mine, stopping it and holding it to his chest. I open my eyes and see him trying to focus on me. He's slow to wake, so like a little boy. He looks at Natalie and tries to move, but she's pinning him, so he turns back again and looks at me. He releases my hand, and I take it back, glad he's too sleepy to comprehend.

"I'm sorry to wake you," I say. My voice is too soft, almost tender.

Schiller shakes his head and lays his hand on Natalie's shoulder. "What time is it?" he asks. His voice is deep and gravely from sleep, and it nearly sends a shiver down my spine.

"Just after seven," I say.

He nods. We sit quietly there for a few more minutes, him drifting in and out of sleep and me starting to doze where I sit. I open my eyes when I feel his hand wrap around my shoulder and squeeze. When I look at my watch, twenty minutes have gone by. "You must be very tired," he says. His eyes are fully open now, watching me.

"I guess I am," I say. I shake my head, trying to clear it.

Schiller glances at Natalie on his chest. "Why don't you take my spot? She'll be happy to see you."

"You don't mind?" I ask. I tilt my head and look up at him.

"No, no," Schiller says. He waves his hand, brushing away my formality. I like knowing that there is a time in the day when he isn't eloquent.

Schiller gently disentangles himself from Natalie, and she protests with a little girl whine. He murmurs reassurances into her ear, speaking to her in a language I don't understand. He strokes her hair away from her face, and she settles under the weight of his touch. He sits up and lays his hand on my shoulder for support, squeezing it as he stands and leaves the room.

* * *

**A/N: Anybody else notice the funny coincidence in the story line that is a reference to one of Radha Mitchell's old movies? :) It's not my reference; it was actually in the show. Twenty bucks to anyone who can tell me =D**


	9. Chapter 9

It is raining when I come down the stairs, a sudden shower that darkens the morning sky. I fiddle with the button on my left sleeve trying to fasten it, water from my hair lightly staining my collar. I plan to head into the kitchen for coffee, but I am curious about what they are doing. I wander back through the living room toward the study and stand just outside the crack in the door.

From where I am standing, I cannot see Natalie over the back of the couch, but I can see Mrs. Walraven lying on its edge. She holds both of Natalie's hands in her own, looking nearly as small as her daughter.

" . . . when they're coming back," Natalie says.

"It won't be long, just a few days more," Mrs. Walraven says. She reaches forward and the movement of her shoulder makes me think that she is stroking her hand down Natalie's face.

Natalie makes a small sound on the sofa, and I can hear her rustling – the sound she makes when she nestles against me.

"Are you doing alright here? Is Mr. Schiller being nice to you?" Mrs. Walraven says.

"Yeah," Natalie says. She speaks very softly, more a sigh than actual words.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Walraven says.

Natalie is quiet for a rather long time. "Why are you asking me that?"

Mrs. Walraven presses her lips together for just a second but keeps her eyes even on her daughter's face. "I just want to make sure he's treating you well."

"Do you – do you think – he wouldn't?" Natalie asks.

Mother and daughter share a long, silent look. Were I to know the nuances of their faces, I think I would hear so much communication pass between them.

"I think," Mrs. Walraven says. She is speaking slowly, carefully, choosing her words. "Mr. Schiller will keep you safe. He wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

"Do you think – Mr. Schiller would hurt me?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven stops, her eyes startled although she hasn't discernibly moved. "Why? Did something happen? Did he scare you?" she asks.

"No," Natalie says. "He's been great to me. It's just that . . ."

"Tell me, solnyshka," Mrs. Walraven says.

"Mom?" she says. The word comes out round and soft, the sound a baby bird makes. Natalie rustles, and I imagine her brushing her cheek against the shoulder of her pink hooded sweatshirt, the one that's so soft it makes her feel like a lamb. "You know how when we talked on the phone – I told you that Uncle Mike had told me some things – about Mr. Schiller."

Mrs. Walraven stills. She is wearing an expression I have come to know means she is thinking fast – deciding how she will answer a question before it comes. "Yes," she says. Her voice is neutral.

"Uncle Mike said – he said Mr. Schiller killed Dad," Natalie says.

Mrs. Walraven stiffens, and then her expression turns soft. She runs her hand down the side of Natalie's face again. "I know he thinks that, but I don't," Mrs. Walraven says.

"How come?" Natalie asks.

"Because Mr. Schiller – he doesn't do things unless there's a logical reason. And the reason he gave me for not doing that makes sense," Mrs. Walraven says.

"What did he say?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven's mouth tightens again.

"Uncle Mike told me why he thinks Mr. Schiller did it already. He said some people think Daddy stole something that belonged to Mr. Schiller," Natalie says.

Mrs. Walraven sighs, a hardness in her eyes that I know means she is seething while seeming perfectly calm. She presses her lips together before speaking again. "Mr. Schiller told me that if he wanted to get it back, he would need to work with Daddy in order to find it."

"And you believe him?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven kisses her daughter's joined hands. "I do," she says.

Natalie makes a soft sound. "Me too," she says.

Mrs. Walraven crinkles her eyes and gives a sad smile. "But, baby, you should be careful around Mr. Schiller," she says. "I don't know how long he's going to be in our lives, and I'm a little worried because you're getting so attached to him."

"I know," Natalie says.

"But, also," Mrs. Walraven says.

I lean closer, my hands resting on the doorposts.

"We don't know Mr. Schiller that well," Mrs. Walraven says.

"Do you think that Mr. Schiller is a bad guy?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven takes a long time in answering, and I feel my shoulders tightening toward the base of my neck. "I don't think he's a bad guy, but he is dangerous," Mrs. Walraven says.

I lean back, turn and walk away.

* * *

Natalie comes into the kitchen while I am standing at the island, drinking coffee. Her feet make quiet swishing sounds across the tile, and her pajama pants drag on the floor behind her. I can't help but give a small smile. She smiles back at me, rubbing her eye with the back of her fingers, the sleeve of her sweatshirt nearly covering her entire hand. She shivers and comes to stand next to me, like I'm a fire keeping her warm.

"Mom's taking a shower," Natalie says. She stifles a yawn.

I nod and look down at the top of her head. The gray light from the morning rain makes her hair shine like straw spun to gold. She leans close to me and wraps an arm around my back, hugging me for a long moment before letting me go. I stiffen at her touch. I'm not used to it. The times that I've held her she's been crying or nearly asleep. She laughs at me and pads around the island, already opening the refrigerator door and looking for juice.

I stare at her. I hadn't expected her sudden affection. Even yesterday, I would have been stunned. But especially today it surprises me, when her mother has just warned her about how dangerous I am.

"Natalie," I say. I cock my head, watching her.

She abandons her search for juice and opens the plastic container on the counter, pulling out one of yesterday's croissants. She carries it over in both her hands, pinching off a piece and squeezing it between her fingers. I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't. She simply pulls herself up onto one of the high chairs and looks at me, licking chocolate out of the tear in the bread.

I lean my hips against the island counter and look at her, so long that she swallows her bite and sits still. "Are you – worried about anything?" I ask.

She pinches off another bite and chews it slowly before answering. "I'm worried about my brothers," she says.

I nod and narrow my eyes, holding her gaze so that she cannot look away. "Anything else?" I ask.

She licks chocolate off her lower lip and tilts her head. I can't tell whether her thoughtfulness is feigned or not. "I'm worried about my mom, about the things you guys are doing."

I nod and wait for her to go on.

"I know I shouldn't be," Natalie says. She looks down and toys with the bread in her hands. "But I'm worried about my Uncle Mike."

I stare at her without saying anything. She looks back at me, steady and unflinching. I hold her gaze so long, anyone else would have been squirming, but she looks back at me silent, in thought. If she knows what I am asking, she gives no indication and, if so, she is a far better liar than many of the people I do business with. Her eyes return to the croissant she is holding, and she pinches off another piece, biting it even though it is small before putting the rest into her mouth.

I brush an imaginary dusting of fine coffee grounds into a line and keep my eyes on my finger as I speak. "Are you worried about me?" I ask. I don't raise my eyes to see her reaction until the last two words.

She looks up at me, her quick brown eyes going still. "What do you mean? Is something wrong?" she asks.

I look at her. I don't answer.

She slides off her chair and lands with a thump on the floor. She walks around the island and comes to stand next to me, pressing into me so that our sides touch. She looks up at me, and she is so close I have to fight the urge to lean away from her. "Is something wrong?" she asks again. Her dark eyes search my face. I don't answer, and she moves even closer. "Are you okay?"

I lean back when I hear her last question. I'm taken so off guard I move away. She steps closer to me like a hound chasing a fox, and I put my hand on the base of her neck just to keep her back.

"Are you okay?" she asks again. She looks up at me, her brows knitted together.

"Yes, I'm fine," I say. It sounds like a bad lie.

"Are you really?" she asks. She pushes closer.

"Yes, I am. You don't have to be concerned," I say.

She looks at me, disbelief clear on her face.

"I'm fine. I was only asking," I say. I can't bring myself to tell a better lie.

She chews on her bottom lip and frowns at me. "Would you tell me if you weren't?" she says.

I smile and relax a little, sagging down to be closer to her. I rub the back of her neck and lean toward her. "I would," I say. It is almost a whisper.

* * *

I follow the sound of their voices toward the kitchen. My hair smells like Schiller's shampoo, and I keep turning around to see if he is standing behind me before I remember that the scent is coming from me. I stop short when I see them together. They are standing with their backs to me in front of the stove. Schiller holds a spatula in his left hand and steadies a shallow pan with his right. Natalie laughs, nudging him with her shoulder, and he leans down, saying something into her ear. She shakes her head, moving away from him a step before he reaches out and places his hand on the back of her neck. He pulls her against his side and says something else into her ear. I wonder why he is whispering to her like it's a secret when there is no one else in the world to hear.

* * *

We walk toward the cars together in the morning rain. It's lightened up some, but I huddle against Mr. Schiller to stay warm, while he holds a giant golf umbrella up over our heads. Mom trails along beside me, her hands on both my shoulders, touching me but being careful not brush against him. It's hard not to, though, with Mr. Schiller's arm around my back.

They are so awkward with each other it almost makes me laugh. Even when they're nice to each other, it goes through me, like Mr. Schiller wrapping up a crepe in a paper napkin and handing it to me to give to my mother. And my mother taking it, saying, "thank Mr. Schiller for me". They revolve around each other without interacting, like an old divorced couple with a kid.

Mr. Schiller is growing impatient because Mom keeps on lagging behind, and he has to keep stopping to hold the umbrella over her too. But he doesn't ask her about it, so she doesn't explain. And he gets more annoyed until he starts to get mad. I laugh, and they turn to stare at me.

"Mom doesn't believe in umbrellas," I say. My laughs make little clouds of breath in the air. I blink water out of my eyes from a sudden splash. "She likes to walk in the rain."

Mr. Schiller narrows his eyes at me, as if he's trying to decide whether I'm telling a joke.

"It's true," I say, drying my cheek by brushing it against his shoulder.

He stares at my mom, and her cheeks turn a little pink. She shrugs and says that she's always liked the rain. He scowls at her, and I laugh again.

He walks me to the car and holds the umbrella over me while I get in. Then, even though she doesn't want it, he follows my mom to her car too. They stand together, talking for a few minutes, Mr. Schiller leaning close to her to say something in her ear. I tilt my head watching them. I wonder whether they feel like they can't be nice to each other unless they are alone.

* * *

Schiller walks me around the car, following close. He is edgy, like a caged animal as soon as Natalie is gone. I open the door, and he stops me, putting his hand on my arm. I look down at it and then back at his face. He leans close to me – a cold grayness in his eyes. He doesn't have to squeeze for me to know that I am trapped.

He leans down to me and speaks into my ear. "I thought you'd want to know we've dealt with Kurt Bowman," he says.

"Dealt with?" I ask.

"He's in the trunk of Vincent's car – most of him," Schiller says. He nods toward the car Natalie is in. I have to bite my lip hard to keep from turning and looking at her. I'm afraid she'll see it on my face. "And Michael Tomlin?" Schiller asks. He looks down at me – dispassionate, cold.

I take a breath. I don't know what Schiller already knows about Mike. It's hard to hide from him; I know that too well. But I promised Dina so I speak the lie as steadily as I can. "He's been – dealt with," I say. It comes out almost a whisper.

"Good," Schiller says. He takes a step closer, his posture rigid, wearing the threat in his body like a steel rod in his back. "So the daughter is safe, and the mother is back on the job, focused on nothing else."

"I know. I'm going to . . ." I say.

But Schiller cuts me off. He gives a humorless laugh. "This is _not_ a favor," he says. He is so cold right now, his closeness makes me shiver. "I am helping you protect Natalie because you work for me. Do you understand?"

"Is that why you brought me over here, to remind me that I owe you?" I ask.

Schiller laughs and gives a single shake of his head. He leans in again and speaks into my ear. "What difference does the occasion make? You know the strait you are in whether I remind you or not."

* * *

Natalie opens the window and puts her hand out to feel the rain on her skin. She laughs when an errant drop splashes her face. She smiles and looks back over her shoulder at me, breathless. I cock my head, watching her. She is freer at this moment than I have ever seen her.

After a minute, she sits back and closes the window. She sits close to me, though not touching as before. She looks up at me and blinks the tips of hair from her eyes. "So how come we're taking this car today?" she asks.

I smile down at her. "Vincent has some errands to run this morning, so we're taking his car instead of mine," I say. And I'm not lying when I say it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Sance777 – thank you so much for your wonderful review and excellent questions! You're really making me think. I love it! :) Also, thank you to all my guest reviewers! I can't respond to your reviews because I can only send messages to account holders, but thank you, thank you, thank you!**

* * *

I walk with Mr. Schiller through the same doors as before, up the elevator and past the same people. There's a man who sits at a small glass table at the front of the office, and he nods at me as we walk past. I wonder who these people think that I am.

Mr. Schiller turns on a wide screen TV, and it shows stock market prices and graphs. We stand in the middle of the room looking at it. Mr. Schiller's eyes narrow as he reads the numbers, and I wonder what he's seeing in all that information. I don't know what I should do, whether I should go into the back office again or stay out here. Mr. Schiller doesn't seem to remember that I'm with him, so I just stand there and wait.

My phone buzzes and I take it out of my pocket, running my finger over the screen to unlock it. Mr. Schiller glances down at me, and he takes the phone out of my hands before I can read it. He holds the phone out to the man at the table.

"Give this to Nolani. Tell her to change it," Mr. Schiller says.

"What are you doing?" I ask. I stare as the man takes my phone away. It feels like he's carting off a piece of me.

Mr. Schiller barely glances at me as he walks to his desk. "It's broken. Nolani will change it for a new one."

I stand there for a minute, not knowing what to say. Does he mean he's giving me a new one to keep? It's an expensive gift, and I don't want to sound ungrateful, but all my contacts, my texts, my pictures are on it. I don't want a new phone. I want my old one. I look back over my shoulder at the doorway the man has gone through. Should I ask Mr. Schiller if I can keep my old one?

I wander to the window and look out. I can feel his eyes on my back, but I don't know what to say, so I just stand there looking at my reflection in the glass. I look out of place here, a small pink thing on a backdrop of red and black. I'm a dissonant color on a foreign palette, and I wish I had worn a different sweater.

Mr. Schiller sighs behind me, and I'm afraid he'll be mad. He's so different here than he is at his house. He moves quickly here – it feels chaotic, like at any moment things could spin out control.

He comes to stand behind me and looks out the window too. After a long moment, he looks down at my face from the side. He doesn't say anything, just watches me, and I wish I could tell him I'm not always like this. I'm not sullen or moody or things I know adults think teenagers are. It's just that everything is so different here, so alien, that I have trouble knowing how to begin to explain. It's a loss of control so sudden, it makes you realize how carefully you've been held – how intricately things were arranged around you to have ever made you feel safe at all.

I look up at him and give him a small smile. He softens his face, almost a smile in return. I take a deep breath and look back out the window. Mr. Schiller puts his hands into his pockets and looks out with me.

After a few minutes, the man comes back. He hands me a new phone that looks exactly like my old one. They've even put my purple phone case on it. "Thank you," I say. The word is pulled out automatically before I have the chance to look from the phone to the man's face. He doesn't look at me, just nods once and walks away.

I turn around and look up at Mr. Schiller. He tilts his head, just a little, as if to ask if it's okay. I smile a little and hold the phone in both my hands. He raises his hand and rubs my back between my shoulder blades before turning and walking back to his desk. I go over to the couch near the window and sit down. It's worn in at the corner, and I press my back into it, feeling it cradle me. I bring my knees up close to my chest.

I swipe my finger across the screen and enter the code to unlock it. It's the same code I set for my phone. I look up at Mr. Schiller, but he's already working, so I don't ask him how they figured it out. I'm not sure I want to know anyway. I check my texts, my photos, my music – they're all there. Even my levels have been saved in my games. It's better than they can do at the Apple store, and I wonder how they got all this stuff on here so quickly. I scroll back to the last text message I got – the one that came in just before Mr. Schiller took my phone. It's a message from my mom. It says, "I love you". "I love you too," I write back, but what I want to say is "how much, you have no idea".

* * *

We walk to a restaurant for lunch because Vincent isn't back yet with the car. How long does it take to dispose of a body? Natalie walks beside me, still holding her phone in her hands. She keeps it close to her – a lifeline, I suppose. I walk with my hands in my pockets, only touching her to guide her around a corner. She stays close to me, not clinging, but closer than anyone has walked to me in quite a while.

I take her to a Japanese restaurant near the water. They have the best sushi in town. I expect her to order udon or teriyaki or something similar, but she orders a yellowtail roll and eats it with chopsticks. We sit at a table instead of at the bar, and she tells me about something called street art. It sounds like a gallery exhibition when she discusses the pieces, and it takes me a long time to realize she's describing graffiti. Still, the irony of its illegality is not lost on me.

On the way back, she walks so close to me that our arms touch, and I put my hands back into my pockets. I listen to her voice without thinking. I watch our feet travel down the cracked sidewalk. It is a moment until I realize she isn't with me. I turn to look back and see her standing at a window. It is as if an electric field has caught her in its orbit. I walk back and stand beside her. She doesn't speak, simply stands there staring in.

"Would you like to go inside for a moment?" I ask.

She looks up at me. She wears the breathless look from the car.

The corners of my mouth tilt up, and I put my hand on her back, rubbing it lightly as I guide her inside. I lose her immediately to the close-packed shelves, the racks upon racks of oil paint tubes. I wander across the dark gray cement floor, splatters of brightly colored paint dripped and dried into place. There's an older man behind the counter cleaning paintbrushes. He gives me a knowing look.

"That your daughter?" the man asks. He nods at Natalie.

I follow his gaze to where she is kneeling on the floor, opening tubes and examining colors.

"She has expensive taste," the man says. He grins.

I shrug and turn back to watch her. The man dries the clean brushes on a paper towel, the bristles making a rustling sound behind me. I make a slow circuit of the store to give her space, but when I return she is still kneeling in the same spot. She is holding aluminum tubes of paint with names like Viridian Green and Sheveningen Yellow, her hands already stained with smudges of color. I rest my palm on the back of her neck to keep her from reaching for me when she stands up.

"I can't decide," she murmurs. She brushes her finger over the back of her hand where she has smeared two shades of crimson onto her skin.

I touch the shades, running my thumb lightly over the back of her hand, where her skin is soft beneath the paper-thin layer of paint. "Get them both," I say.

"They're expensive," she says.

"Don't worry. Get whatever you like," I say.

She turns and looks up at me, but I have already walked away.

* * *

Mr. Schiller stands outside the glass window with his back to the store. He's talking on his phone while he waits for me. I put down the tubes of paint and the new palette and glance over my shoulder while the man rings me up.

"These are good oils. Are you a serious painter?" the man asks.

I look at him, but his question seems genuine. "I do mostly acrylics, but I really like oils."

The man grins at me. "Tough stuff. No watercolors?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Good for you," he says. He nods.

I hand him the money, but he closes the register. "Your dad already opened you an account," the man says.

I stare at the man for two long heartbeats – so long he starts to look worried. There are pinpricks of pain in my eyes. It takes me a minute more to realize that he's talking about Mr. Schiller.

"Are you alright?" the man asks. He reaches out and lays a hand on my arm.

I nod and stuff the pain back in. I pack it away to keep it from swallowing me whole. "Yes, I'm fine," I say. It's been months, but the briefest mention of my dad still knocks me back so hard it takes the wind out of me.

The man stares at me and slowly takes back his hand. "Do you want me to get your dad for you?"

"No, I'm okay," I say. I blink hard to get rid of the tears. "He's not my dad. My dad – died."

The man shifts his weight back and touches my arm again. "I'm sorry, angel," he says. He tilts his head.

"Thank you," I say. And the word almost chokes me. I've lost my dad and Uncle Mike in three short months.

"Listen," the man says. He picks up a business card in front of the register and hands it to me. "I'm here every day. It's my shop. You can come back any time you want – to talk or paint, you know, whatever you want."

I smile a little. It feels good to be able to say it out loud and have people know why you're dying inside. "Thank you," I say again.

He nods. I turn and start walking toward the door. Then I stop and turn back around. "What did you mean when you said he opened an account for me?" I ask.

"He put his credit card down," the man says. "So any time you come back, you just give us your name, and the charges go to the card."

I look at the man for a minute longer. I open my mouth to thank him again, but I'm afraid he'll call me "angel" and I'll start crying, so I just smile and tug my backpack on tighter.

The sun hits me with a flash of heat when I step outside. I am glad that Mr. Schiller is still on the phone. I need a second to get myself together.

His voice sounds different, and I think maybe it's because he's speaking in a different language. It's the same one he reads to me in – the same language and the same voice. I stand beside him without looking at him, taking deep, slow breaths. Mr. Schiller laughs, and I squeeze my hand into a fist. I've never heard him laugh before, and I try to concentrate on that, but the man's words are ringing in my ears. I will never be able to say, "my dad is waiting for me" or "hang on while I call my dad". I will never get to know him as an adult. I will never feel him hold me again.

Mr. Schiller hangs up but doesn't look at me. We both just stare in opposite directions. After a while, I hear him sigh and turn toward me. He comes up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. He doesn't ask me if I'm alright. He leans into me until his chest presses against my back.

I turn around in the middle of the street and put my arms around him. This time, he doesn't hesitate to hug me back. Even after I'm ready to stand up again, he just stands there holding on.

* * *

I don't have to bring the cash to Schiller immediately. I can give it to him at the end of the runs. But I carry it to his office in a black duffel bag so that I can give it to him and see Natalie while I'm there. His guards have stopped checking me for guns. I guess I'm trusted into the building with one now. They take a cursory look for bombs this afternoon and then wave me on my way.

I walk into Schiller's office carrying the bag. He's looking down at some papers on his desk. When I enter, he looks up at me, and there are lines around his eyes. His posture sags in a way it doesn't even when he's tired. I stop in my tracks. He doesn't say anything, just sits up and looks at me. I walk the last few steps to his desk and set the bag slowly down onto the floor.

"Thank you for bringing it," he says.

I nod. "Sure," I say. It's not usually the kind of thing I would say to Schiller, but there's a vacantness to him that catches me off guard.

"Natalie's in the back," Schiller says. His eyes return to his papers.

"Mr. Schiller, are you . . ." I say. I look at him.

When he looks back at me, I hold his gaze. I can see the look he's going for is bored, but he doesn't quite pull it off today.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

I bite my lip. It's not something I should ask. Schiller drove my daughter to work today with a cut up body in the trunk of his car. And he's threatened to kill me more than once over a debt I can't seem to repay. I think it might be in my best interest if he weren't okay. I think it might be in my best interest if he fell off a cliff.

"Mrs. Walraven," Schiller says. It comes out an impatient growl, and the wheels of his chair scrape the floor when he pushes back.

I freeze like a deer in headlights. Schiller walks – slow – around the edge of his desk, each step a distinct click of his shoe. I think wildly as he approaches me that he'd be great as one of those monsters in a horror movie where you can't see him coming, you can only hear him. Schiller stops when he's beside me, breathing down my neck, my shoulder pressed against the lower half of his sternum. My eyes flit to the side, but I can't turn my head he's so close, and I wonder in times like these if he expects me to run. Is that what most people do? Or do most people stand here like an idiot, frozen in time, while the monster walks up and eats them?

Schiller leans so close to me I can feel his breath on my face, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His lips brush my hair so that it tickles my face. I feel like my eyes must be wild with panic. "Natalie . . . is in . . . the back," Schiller says.

I'm breathing fast – light – preparing for an attack that doesn't come. That's the worst part with Schiller, not knowing when you can stop being scared. I give a convulsant nod and turn toward the back door, without bringing my eyes anywhere near him. I walk as if on stilts, as if the ground is made of toothpicks that at any moment could splinter apart. I grip the doorknob so hard it hurts my hand.

I open the door and stop. I don't know how I can keep getting stunned, but the sight of my daughter nails me to my spot. She's propped up her sketch pad like an easel on the desk, and she's holding a palette with colors as vibrant as the setting sun on it. The desk is draped in a white sheet and she stands looking at her work, like a professional artist in a gallery studio. I let out a quiet laugh and gaze at my daughter.

"Mom," Natalie says. She puts down the palette and runs to me, swallowing me up in a hug.

"My girl," I say. I press her cheeks between my hands, and I'm amazed that with all the colors she isn't more paint-spattered.

"Mr. Schiller's letting me use this as a studio," she says.

I smile and nod. "I can see that," I say. The smile hurts my cheeks and makes them warm. I look over my shoulder at Schiller.

He's standing in front of his desk where I left him, brushing dust across its surface with his fingertips. He shrugs with one shoulder. "She was making a mess," he says, but quietly, so only I can hear.

I smile at him, and he draws himself up, narrowing his eyes at me – seething. But I'm too tired to care – I'm so happy to hear my daughter laugh that I turn away from him and walk into Natalie's room.


	11. Chapter 11

It is late afternoon – nearly 3:00 p.m. – when Mrs. Walraven comes by to drop off the first load of cash. When I look in on them an hour later, Natalie is busy at her canvas, and Mrs. Walraven lies curled up on the sofa along the window, the afternoon sun making her cheeks warm and her skin glow. Her head is propped up on her hand, and she has let her hair down. It tumbles in a loose wave over her wrist as she watches her daughter. She looks at me when I stop outside the doorway. I look back at her, head down, hands hanging loose in my pockets. I nod at her, and she gives me a fleeting smile. Natalie's hand moves with the practiced precision of an artist, but her eyes are alive, like a wild creature's, flitting across the canvas at the pace of a bird's heartbeat.

An hour after that, it is silent. Natalie is curled up in the desk chair, arms wrapped loosely around her body, head nestled into the back of the seat. She sleeps lightly, fitfully, her hands twitching as if she is still painting in her dreams. The sun has moved away from the window now, and Mrs. Walraven sleeps huddled into herself, her body cocooned inside her jacket to keep her warm. I walk in – silently – and stand over her. Her breathing is shallow, quick, as if she isn't accustomed to staying still for so long. Even in sleep, she is active.

I look over my shoulder at Natalie. She is still asleep. Then I turn back to Mrs. Walraven, take off my jacket and lay it over her.

* * *

The sun is a flash of heat on my neck, my back, where the linen of my dress dips down to the base of my spine. It is a soft white, the color of milk, where it gathers around my legs, the hem dipping into the water at my feet. The ocean air is balmy, sweet, almost thick to the touch, like a hand caressing my back.

Evan comes toward me, wearing a white linen shirt, its drawstring laces open at his collar. He smiles at me, and it's like the sun shining down, filling me with a warmth I can't contain. He sits down beside me on a hammock strung over the ocean, my foot rocking us steadily back and forth. He leans close to me, right up against me and when he whispers, his lips brush my neck. But it's not his voice I hear.

* * *

I go back in an hour later, but they are still sleeping. An hour after that, almost 7:00 p.m., I go in again. I cross the room and stand over Mrs. Walraven. She murmurs in her sleep. I kneel down next to her face and listen. She is speaking in Russian, the words coming out with softer edges than I've heard the language spoken before. The k's and z's are lighter, the y's dragged out less with a gentler pull. I wish Natalie were awake so I could ask her what her mother is saying, but at the same time I'm not sure I would want to spoil the mystery.

I wait until she has stopped speaking and then I say her name – quietly – into her ear. She doesn't stir so I lay my hand on her back, rubbing it to wake her from her dreams. She rolls toward me, burying her face in her arm, and lies on her stomach right at the edge of the couch, her side coming to rest against mine. I smile because she cannot see it, and say her name to her again. This time she doesn't react at all, and I can see that she is too tired to wake easily. I uncover her right shoulder to let in some cool air. Then I slip my hand beneath the jacket and rub her back.

* * *

Schiller's voice is a distant rumble in my ear, and I'm cold so I move toward the warmth of his body. I can smell him all around me, like I'm wrapped in him, and I press close until I feel him against my side. I feel him rub my shoulder through a blanket. Then his hand slides under it and courses over my back. He rubs from my neck to the base of my spine and back up again, pressing in enough that his touch is almost rough. I move closer, but he backs away a little, letting more cold in air under my blanket. He uncovers half my back, and I press closer, trying to stay warm but I'm already at the edge so I have to stop.

Evan's saying something to me I can't understand, and I can see him sitting on the hammock in front of me. But the voice I hear and the hand I feel, the scent I smell are all Schiller's. I raise my head a little and then rest it on Evan's shoulder. He's warm, but I can feel him slipping away.

"Evan?" I say. My voice sounds airy, whisper thin, as if I can't get enough air to speak while I'm breathing.

"No, it's not Evan. It's me," he says.

I press my face closer to the sound of his voice, but the lights are too bright here, and they hurt my eyes. I bury my face back into my arm.

He uncovers me the rest of the way, and the air is so cold I groan. His hand courses – warm and rough – down my back and then up. It's waking me, but I don't want him to stop. He sighs. "You shouldn't have come," he says. He whispers it into my ear. "You need to drive in a few hours, and you're exhausted. You should have stayed at the marina to sleep."

"But I wanted to see you," I say. I mumble the words, and I'm not sure if I mean Evan or him.

"I know you want Natalie, but there's a job to be done and you can't do it in your present condition," he says.

In the back of my mind I register danger. Schiller cautioning me about a job only means one thing. He's unhappy with something I've done, and his discontent often manifests in violence. I struggle to sit up, and he leans back to give me room but a rush of cold air makes me want him to stop.

"Don't go," I say.

He continues to stand.

"Mr. Schiller, don't go," I say. I catch onto his lapel with my hand.

I feel his hand wrap, warm and tight around my wrist, and he kneels back down onto the floor. "Mrs. Walraven, I can't understand you," he says softly. He rubs my back again and speaks into my ear like before.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Mrs. Walraven, you're dreaming. I can't understand you. You're speaking in Russian," he says.

I open my eyes and raise my face from my arm. Schiller is leaning so close to me when I look up that all I see are his eyes. Then I look down at my hand, holding a clump of his lapel in my fist, and I let go, smoothing it out with my palm. "I'm sorry," I say. I touch my head. "I must have been dreaming about something."

"It's alright," he says. He stands up.

I push myself into a seated position and wrap my arms around my body, holding tight. It is so cold in the back office, and I wonder why I didn't notice it before.

"You should say goodbye to Natalie. You have to leave for the marina soon," Schiller says.

I nod, brushing my hand across my face, trying to shake my dream off and remember it at the same time.

"Mrs. Walraven," Schiller says.

"I know. I'm going," I say.

And he steps back to give me some space. I wonder why his tone has softened so much when he was so rough with me earlier. He follows me across the room to where Natalie is sleeping, but he stops on the other side of the desk.

"Solnyshka," I whisper. I pass my hand down her face. "My girl, I have to go now."

Natalie looks at me, eyes hazed with sleep, and I wonder how long she hasn't been sleeping. "Where are you going?" she asks.

"I have to go back to the marina, baby," I say.

"When are you coming back?" she asks.

"In the morning. I'll come to see you at Mr. Schiller's house," I say.

"Hurry," she says.

I give a soft laugh. "I will, baby girl. I promise." I stand slowly, my hand lingering on Natalie's face for as long as I can reach her. Then I turn and head toward the door. Schiller steps back to let me pass and then follows me out into his office.

"Take those with you. There's one for each boat," Schiller says. He nods toward the conference table at the front of his office, where there are three devices that look more like walkie talkies than phones.

"Sat phones?" I ask. I look over my shoulder at him.

"Just in case something goes wrong," Schiller says.

I pick one up and run my fingers over the buttons. They make clacking sounds like old landline phones. He's left the duffel, now empty, on the table for me, and I start loading the phones into the bag.

"What is 'solnyshka'?" he asks. He leans back against the front of his desk, his hands resting on either side of the front edge.

I look over my shoulder at him. "I'm sorry?" I say.

"'Solnyshka', what you call your daughter," Schiller says. He glances over his shoulder at Natalie. He turns back to me, his eyes even, relaxed.

I give a small smile. I look down and unzip another compartment. "It means 'my sunshine'," I say. I look up at him and shake the hair out of my eyes.

Schiller nods, and I turn back to the bag. "And 'ne idut'?" he asks.

"It means 'don't go'," I say. I put the last phone into the bag and zip it up. "Why do you ask?"

Schiller walks over and reaches past me, picking up the office phone on the table. He presses a button and holds it up to his ear. "Bring Mrs. Walraven's car to the front," he says. He hangs up without waiting for an answer. "The sat phone lines are secure so you should use those if you need to talk about the shipment. The numbers are written on the backs of the phones. Call me if you have any difficulties," he says. He nods at the bag in my hand.

"Alright," I say. I sling the strap over my shoulder and turn to walk out the door. I am halfway to the elevator bank before I remember he told me that I'd been speaking to him in Russian.


	12. Chapter 12

That night I decide I should try to sleep in my room. I lie awake for nearly an hour, and then I get up to draw. But after two hours have gone by, I give up and head back out of my room. I run my hands along the dark walls as I walk, even though I already know my way pretty well. I stop when I feel the cold door handles. I twist each one I pass, but they're all locked except for mine and Mr. Schiller's.

Mr. Schiller's bedroom door stands open at the top of the stairs. It's dark inside, and it's colder than it is in my room. His room is big and drafty with a four-poster bed. It's made out of heavy dark wood with intricate carvings that make it look gothic. I run my hand over the deep red pillowcase. It's Thai silk, and it's smooth but stiff to the touch. I watch the color change from red to black as my hand alters the angle of the light. It's pretty, but to sleep on, it seems rough.

I sit down and run my hand over the bedspread. It's like the yellow one in my room except it has raised filigrees instead of diamonds on it. I lie down and rest my head on Mr. Schiller's pillow. It smells like him as soon as I lie down. I swing my legs back onto the floor and get up, straightening the covers so it looks the way it did when I walked in.

I go into his closet, and it's like a room of its own. It's even bigger than my parents' walk-in closet at home. It's filled with suits in varying shades of black and gray. I run my hand along the sleeves of his shirts and pass my fingers through the soft silk of his ties. I step closer and press my face into the space between his clothes taking in a deep breath of his scent. I used to do that with the clothes in my dad's closet, and I wonder how long it will smell that way now that he's gone.

I turn around and shut off the lights I've turned on, leaving the room in darkness. I walk down the stone steps – without any wood to creak it seems like it'd be an easy place to sneak out of. At the base of the stairs, I hesitate, running my fingers up and down the wooden rail of the banister.

I turn right and go into the family room. There's a big couch that faces more bookshelves. There's a remote control on the coffee table, but there's no TV, only a stereo. I pick up the remote and press the power button. A flat screen descends from a slot over the bookcase. I'm so startled I let out a laugh. I wonder if Mr. Schiller ever watches this TV. Does he watch sports like Uncle Irwin, the History channel like my dad? Or is the only time he turns it on when he wants to look at stock prices like at his office? The television turns on when it's fully exposed. It's tuned to MTV.

I press the button again, and the TV rises back up. I walk over and look at the books, running my fingers over their worn spines. These books are skinnier than the ones in his office with colorful covers written in all different languages. There's a door in the back corner behind the TV, just like the door to the study in the living room. I expect to find it locked, but it opens.

There's another bedroom back there, but with less furniture in it than the others. A wheelchair stands empty against the wall. I back out, pulling the door shut behind me. Did Mr. Schiller have a parent who lived in that room? Did Mr. Schiller have a parent who died? My heart is pounding in my chest, and I start sweating. I think I've seen something I'm not supposed to see. I feel terrible that I know this room exists, like I should tell him I found it but I'm also afraid. I stand there for several seconds waiting, as if the guilt of my conscience will lead Mr. Schiller to me, and I won't have to decide whether to confess. He's been so nice to me because I've just lost my dad. What if he just lost his dad too?

I walk slowly back out of the family room. My feet make quiet slapping sounds across the stone and then the wood. But the sounds are even and don't falter a bit, as if I've set myself on a crash course without hesitation. I stand outside the door to the study, my fingers on the knob, and look in. Mr. Schiller glances up at me from his desk, and when he turns, I see he's holding a phone. I start to back out, but he reaches an arm out, waiting for me to come to his side. I press my lips together and walk over to him. He rests one hand on my back as he talks.

His face is turned away from me and toward the phone. It sounds like he's speaking in French. I listen to the lilt of his voice wondering if he'll be mad at me when I tell him what I've done. Mr. Schiller presses the button on his phone. Then he looks up at me and lets out a deep breath. We look at each other for several long seconds.

"Were you speaking French?" I ask.

"Yes," Mr. Schiller says. "A contact I made a long time ago." He gestures at the phone on his desk.

"Were you – was it something illegal?" I ask. I squint my eyes, suddenly dreading the answer. It's not that I think he'll hurt me over this. It's that I've stopped thinking of Mr. Schiller as a bad man.

He laughs, and I feel my shoulders relax a little. I lean back into the weight of his hand. "No, I'm just inquiring about some property. Tell me, do you like horses?"

The question catches me off guard. "Horses? You mean to look at or to ride?"

"Either," Mr. Schiller says. "Both."

"I don't know," I say, laughing. "I went on a pony ride when I was a kid, but I haven't really been around horses enough to know."

Mr. Schiller rubs my back with the palm of his hand. "But you don't think they're – childish?" he asks.

I tilt my head. "No, I don't think so."

Mr. Schiller's gaze drifts down as he considers it. I chew my lip and wait for him to look back at me. When he does, he gives me a brief smile. "You can't sleep?" he asks.

"No," I say. I shake my head, and my eyes drift toward the couch.

Mr. Schiller turns me back to look at him. "Would you like me to read to you?" he asks.

I smile without meaning to and nod. Mr. Schiller stands up and takes the book from the bookcase and then puts his hand on my back to walk me to the couch. He sits down in the corner like he always does, and I sit close beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. He opens the book, but I put my hand on his wrist to stop him. He looks at me, and I take a deep breath before I look back.

* * *

Natalie's forehead is warm, almost feverish, when she lays it down on my shoulder. It feels like a newborn baby's head. I wonder how many years of slowing down it takes for a child's skin temperature to reach the coolness of ours. She settles in against me, as if she has always been there, and her fingers are light and soft as butterfly wings when she rests them on my wrist to get my attention. When I look down at her, she raises her eyes – two huge, round orbs like globes.

"Mr. Schiller," she says. Her eyelashes curve out over her eyes and brush against the strands of hair laying across her forehead. She presses her lips together, dimples appearing in her cheeks.

"Yes, Natalie," I say. There is laughter in my voice, but I don't think she hears it.

Her eyes rotate down, as if they're too big to move in a straight line, and she brushes her cheek against my shoulder. She looks up at me and lets out a deep breath. "Mr. Schiller," she says. She sits up and faces me.

I narrow my eyes, listening carefully for what she has to say.

"I – I was walking around earlier," she says. She presses her lips together and then looks back at me. "And I found something – a room, in the back."

The muscles in my shoulders tighten, the way they do when I'm getting ready to deliver a strike. "And what did you see?" I ask. My voice stays calm, neutral.

"The room was empty, but there was – a wheelchair," she says.

I give her a small smile and lean closer. "Yes, that's my father's room," I say.

She looks up at me, seeming surprised by what I've said. "Your father? Is he – did he die?" she asks.

I laugh at the look on her face. "No, Natalie. He didn't die. He's fine," I say. She looks so startled I keep on laughing.

"But," Natalie says. She shakes her head and starts to laugh too. "But where is he? I mean, why isn't he here?"

"He's visiting family," I say, scratching my forehead.

"Oh," Natalie says. Her cheeks pinken slightly, and she gives me a tiny smile. "But does he live with you?"

"Normally, yes," I say. "But everyone's away – your mother's family and mine. Except for you," I say, and I lean my forehead close to hers when I say it so she will know that she is special.

"Why?" she asks. And the word is crinkly – paper thin. It hangs in the air between us.

"Because," I say. And there's a heaviness to my voice. "It isn't safe – for anyone – right now."

Natalie looks down, and I feel a stab of something deep. "I don't want to live this way," she whispers.

I nod. "I'm sorry," I say. It's something I never say.

She looks up at me. "But then why do you make her do it?"

Then I say what I always do. "There are some things that can't be helped."


	13. Chapter 13

I walk into Schiller's in the morning, triumphant. The last run went off without a hitch. I head back toward the study, taking big steps, but Schiller calls to me from the kitchen at the back. I walk in, my boots clicking against the tile of the floor and rest my hands on the edge of the island. Schiller glances at me and does a double-take. He's not used to seeing me smile, I guess.

"Things went well, I take it," he says. He pours batter into a pan in front of him. He's wearing a blue and white striped apron over his clothes.

"The last shipment is in," I say. I nod at his hands. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"What does it look like?" he says. He holds his hands out to the side.

I smile. Even his grouchiness is endearing this morning. I walk around the island and stop just beside him. He gives me a wary look. "Can I help?" I ask. I run my fingers across the oranges on the counter. I pick up a slice of strawberry and take a bite.

"If you must," Schiller says. He sighs.

I smile and pull over a cutting board. I start slicing oranges in half. "Where's Natalie?" I ask. I look over my shoulder at his back.

"She's taking a shower," he says. He doesn't look at me.

I brush a strand of hair away from my face against my shoulder. "What are you making?" I ask.

Schiller sighs. "Clӑtite," he says.

I smile at him over my shoulder. "It looks good," I say.

He shrugs. "Natalie likes it," he says.

I turn back and place half an orange on the stainless steel juicer. It's so tall I have to reach up for the handle. I pull it down hard, but the orange resists me. I pull again, but the angle makes it difficult. He doesn't have an electric juicer? I put my hand on the handle a third time, but Schiller steps up close behind my back. He reaches over me and takes the handle out of my hand. When he pulls down, he makes it look easy. I turn and look at him, a small smile on my face.

"If it's too hard for you, you can peel them first," he says. He turns around and returns to his cooking.

I suppress a laugh. "That would make it easier," I say.

Schiller tilts the pan, ignoring me. He watches the batter form a thin coat across it. It's only then that I realize what he's making. They're the same paper thin crêpes he made the day before. Today he adds powdered sugar to the top and folds in a few sliced strawberries from the side. "Does Natalie like bananas?" he asks. He doesn't turn to look at me when he speaks.

I tilt my head, watching him. He's brooding today – moody, like yesterday. "Yes," I say. "She likes them."

He breaks off a few bananas from the bunch. He peels one and starts slicing it into discs.

"Thank you," I say. I bite down on my lip. "Thank you for taking such good care of her."

Schiller looks up at me by raising his eyebrows and his eyes, while keeping his face turned down toward the pan. It makes lines appear on his forehead, the way he looks at me when he's thinking, and he scratches the line above his eyebrow with his thumbnail. He shrugs and drops his hand down to rest on his hip. "It's nothing," he says. He rotates the pan.

"Are you going to miss her when I take her home tonight?" I ask. I expect him to say "no" or even to laugh. I don't usually tease Schiller, but I can't help it today.

"Yes," he says.

It startles me. I turn around. I stare at his back. I've never hit a sore spot on him before, and I'd started to think that there were none to hit.

"She's – it's easy with her," he says. He scowls and watches the batter coat the pan.

"What do you mean?" I ask. I'm treading lightly. I feel like I'm poking a sleeping bear.

Schiller gives a hard shrug and stops talking. He rolls the crêpe into a cylinder and slides it onto the plate.

I guess our conversation is over. I turn back and busy my hands with the oranges. My mind turns over the things he's just said.

"She's well-loved. You've done a good job with her," he says.

I turn and stare hard at Schiller's back. "Th . . . thank you," I say. My voice sounds hollow, as if I'm not sure I'm speaking.

He gives me a hard look over his shoulder. I don't know why, so I just stare back.

* * *

I walk down the stone steps and wind my hair back. It's still wet so when I twist it, it pretty much stays. I head toward the kitchen where I hear Mr. Schiller, moving pans and rattling dishes. I stop at the doorway and rest my hand on the frame, my fingers curling like I'm petting the wood. My mother is inside with Mr. Schiller. She's drinking orange juice out of a short crystal glass. They're not talking to each other, just cooking, but they move together with an easy rhythm. It's strange to see how natural they look together, when I've only ever thought of them apart.

I feel something twist inside of me, like when I imagined what it would have been like to be a child in this house. At first, this place seemed so dark and intimidating, but now I can find my way with my eyes closed. My feet know the cracks in the stone stairs. My hands know the feel of the soft woods. What would it be like if the room upstairs were really my room – if it were filled with my things, my colors? What if Gabriel and Boris lived in the locked rooms, and they were open all the time just like mine? And what if my mother's clothes, her soft linen dresses, her chunky sweaters and dark jeans were to hang in that big closet upstairs? What would it be like if this were my life?

I feel a twinge of guilt imagining it, but it's only a twinge because I know the truth – that when you're a kid, your life can change at a moment's notice. You can lose your father, lose your uncle, lose your mother. You can be taken by people you don't know. You can find out secrets that change everything. Your life can alter so much from one moment to the next that you barely know yourself anymore.

* * *

We eat breakfast outside on the terrace. It overlooks a steep drop-off I wonder if Schiller has put to good use. It's Saturday, so I guess he's not going into the office. And after I deliver the last shipment to Johns and divide the money between Alexandra and Schiller, I'll be free too. I sit curled up in a large wrought iron chair, my legs folded on the seat in front of me. I'm drinking strong coffee – almost chalky with milk – but not as thick or small as Schiller's espresso. He's made me my own pot in a French press on the glass table, while he drinks an espresso from the machine. I wonder if he does this when he's here alone or maybe only when his father is here.

Despite the strong coffee, I'm still sleepy. Day is, after all, night for me now. I lean my head against the chair back behind me, and feel the balmy air tickle my face. Normally, when Schiller and I are alone we talk business, but it's strangely relaxed now when we don't talk. Natalie fills the silence between us with stories, so gracious and ladylike it feels like she's my host. From time to time, Schiller catches my eye. When he does, he squints as if my seeing him makes him uncomfortable.

I feel the cup being taken from my hands. When I open my eyes, I see Natalie putting it on the table. I smile, and she brushes her hand against my cheek. I kiss her fingers before she can pull them away.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for all your reviews! This has been my absolute best fanfiction experience ever 'cuz you guys have all been such amazing readers, and I love interacting with you all and getting your story ideas =) Don't worry; it's not over yet. Just wanted to take this opportunity to say it =) Ella, thanks for the feedback. I'm a tad shy :p but I'm definitely going to think about it =) Here's the next chapter. :) Please enjoy!**

* * *

It starts pouring the minute Mom goes back into the kitchen, on her way out toward the front door. Mr. Schiller and I sit huddled together under the awning outside, watching the sky turn dark. But after a second, I hear my mom laughing as she runs through the rain toward her car, and I start laughing too. Mr. Schiller even smiles at the sound. I imagine her running, her hair bobbing up and down as she goes and I think my mother must know some secret thing about the rain that makes it glorious, and not just water falling out of the sky. I don't know how she can be so brave. I don't know how she can be so free. After everything that's just happened, I don't know how she can still laugh at the rain.

I look at Mr. Schiller, and he puts his arm around me. "Are you cold?" he asks. "Do you want to go in?"

I shake my head and lean back against his arm. I want to stay out here a little longer. I want to brave and free like my mom. "Mr. Schiller," I say.

He looks at me.

"Do you ever watch TV?" I ask.

He laughs a little. "Why do you ask?" he says.

"It's just something I've been wondering," I say.

He shrugs. "Not often, but sometimes."

"So, but what else do you do?" I ask.

"You mean when I'm here?" he says.

I nod and pick a strawberry off my mother's plate. He cocks his head at me. "Would you like to see?"

I can feel myself smiling. I don't know what he means, but I get the feeling he's about to let me in on a secret. "Okay," I say.

He smiles at me. "Brave girl," he says. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.

I laugh, like we're going on an adventure. I'm surprised when we just go back into the kitchen. We walk around the table where we had breakfast the other day and go to a door behind it. It's narrow, and it has a tiny doorknob – the kind on old-fashioned doors. The rain lashes the window at our side, coming down in a smooth and steady sheet. Mr. Schiller twists the knob and opens the door.

"Are you ready?" he asks me.

I nod. He reaches past me and flips a light switch on. The lights reveal a long set of wooden steps. It's dizzying. They must go down three flights at least. "What is this?" I ask.

He just looks at me. And I turn back to the stairs in front of us. I take a breath and start walking down them. I hear him laugh and begin to follow me down. For the first twenty or so stairs, we walk in silence. I can't see anything around us; there are walls on either side of us blocking the stairs off from everything else. But the wall drops off halfway down where the handrail is mounted directly to posts on the steps. The stairs are narrow enough that you can hold both handrails at the same time, and I remember how Gabriel used to slide his hands down as far as he could reach and swing himself over five or six stairs at a time. The thought of him doing that on these stairs makes my stomach sink.

Just before we reach the end of the walls, my ears pop, and I look back over my shoulder at Mr. Schiller. He just smiles at me, so I keep on walking. I think how crazy it is that I'm doing this. It's like I'm scaring myself on purpose. I used to love scary movies and haunted houses, but I've been so scared since my father died that I've shied away from anything that could add more fear. I've longed for nothing more than the familiar, the safe – and there hasn't been a drop of familiar in a really long time. But then I think of my mother, driving the boats out in the middle of the ocean at night, doing criminal things she probably doesn't know how to do. I think of her working with Mr. Schiller and all these bad, scary people, and I remember how she can still laugh in the rain. I turn back again and look at Mr. Schiller. I feel breathless thinking about those things.

"Are you doing alright?" Mr. Schiller asks. "Do you want me to go first?" He raises his eyebrows, taking on the English professor look.

And I smile, but I shake my head in return. It's time for me to be strong like my mother. It's time to be brave the way she is. I turn around, and my steps don't falter. I keep walking at the steady pace I started out at.

* * *

I consider several times turning us back. This isn't a playground for children, I know. There are dangerous things down here. She might freeze one on thing or another, or worse, she might want to do too much and get hurt. But there's an insatiable desire within me – a curiosity to see if she's really as brave as she seems – to see if she's really as brave as her mother seems. I saw it once – that Petrov look – the one her mother uses so well. Now I want to see how far does it go. How much like her mother is she? How much like me?

As soon as we get past the basement half wall, she stops and takes a look. She stands still in her spot, and her eyes take in everything at once. I wait for one heartbeat, two. I wait with bated breath.

"Whoa," she says. She breathes the word out, and a smile breaks out across her face. She looks up at me, her eyes shining, as if she's never seen anything like it. She turns and starts tearing down the stairs, and I have to reach out and snatch her by the arm. She looks up at me, cheeks flushed.

"Slowly," I say, holding my hand out. "Go slowly until we get to the bottom."

She gives me a radiant smile, and sets out for the bottom of the stairs at a pace just shy of a run.

* * *

If I had to pick a word, I'd say the Bat Cave, but it's actually much more than that. There's a show called Cribs on MTV, where you get to see what celebrities and really rich people do with their houses. The craziest ones always belong to single guys. Mr. Schiller's basement, or basements I guess, could put all those away.

The ceiling goes as high as a warehouse, and there's a rock-climbing wall the length of the entire gym. There are suspension cords criss-crossing the ceiling, maybe for you to climb or swing yourself across. There's a giant trampoline the size of our swimming pool enclosed in a black mesh net. There's a padded floor, like a gymnastics mat, with springboards holding it up. I can see parallel bars and a balance beam – the kind they use on the Olympics. There's a full size boxing ring set in the middle of the gym. And there are heavy weight bags of different shapes and sizes scattered around the perimeter of the room. It reminds me of the kind of thing you'd see in a superhero movie where the heroes go to learn to harness their powers.

I look over my shoulder at Mr. Schiller. He is standing behind me with his hands on his hips. "What do you want to try first?" he asks.

"Everything," I admit.

Mr. Schiller walks up behind me and squeezes my shoulders.

"Can we do the rock climbing wall?" I ask.

"Sure," he says. He gestures for me to lead the way, and I take off for the far end of the room. "Is this as big as the entire house?" I ask. I call the words over my shoulder as I run.

"Bigger," Mr. Schiller says. "The footprint of the gym is almost three times as large as the house."

"Gabe would love this," I say.

I'm nearly breathless by the time I get to the base of the wall, and I'm already sweating through my clothes. I pull my sweatshirt off and wind my hair back behind me, tying it with the elastic band on my wrist. "Does it matter which colors I use?" I ask. I reach over my head and grab a green rock in my left hand and a red rock in my right. I place my right foot on a blue rock and test it out. My left foot has barely left the floor when I feel Mr. Schiller grab me from behind and pull me tight up against him.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller laughs. "You have to be tied in first," he says. He doesn't let go of me when he speaks, just keeps his arms looped around me as if he's afraid that if he lets go, I'll spring for the rock wall again.

"I know. I was just trying it out," I say.

Mr. Schiller smiles at me. Then he lets go and bends down to open a steel case at the base of the wall. "This one should fit you," he says. He takes out a red harness and holds it on the floor, showing me where to put my feet to step into it. I steady myself by holding onto his shoulders while he pulls the harness up and loosens it a little. He takes a rope hanging from a pulley overhead and snaps the carabineer through the ring on the front of my harness. Then he puts on a harness and hooks himself to the other end of the rope. "Does it feel alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. I smile.

"Alright, now, Natalie," Mr. Schiller says. He puts his hands on both my shoulders and pulls me a little closer to him. He leans down and looks right into my face. "This is very important, okay? You can't ever do this unless I'm here. I need to be here in case you fall."

"I know," I say. I turn toward the wall, but Mr. Schiller catches my cheek against his curled finger.

"It can't be just anyone. Do you understand?" he says.

"Yes," I say. I look up at him.

His hands linger on my shoulders, not letting go. He cocks his head and keeps his eyes on mine. "Do you trust me, Natalie?" he asks. His words slow down, and I feel like he's asking me something else.

I look up at him, my brows knitted together. I'm trying to figure out what he's asking me. "Yes," I say. I say it softly but clearly. "Yes," I say. "I trust you."

* * *

She climbs up the wall like she weighs nothing, and I have to let out rope so fast it makes my palms burn. She is nearly to the top of the open wall, and I realize now I should have shown her the rest. I should have shined the flashlight up so that she could have seen it all before she started. But I never thought she would make it that far. I have sorely underestimated her. When she reaches for the handholds above her head, I have to call out to her to slow down.

"You're getting close to where the space narrows," I say. "You shouldn't go up much farther than that."

"But I'm doing okay," she calls back.

I can't help but smile. "Natalie, the wall behind you is getting closer, and the handholds get farther apart the higher you climb. You'll be more likely to get injured if you fall because you might hit the wall at your back."

Natalie glances over her shoulder at the wall closing in behind her. "I'm okay. I still have a couple of feet."

I grin despite myself and shake my head. She is intrepid – just what I thought.

She gets stuck before she can turn sideways and begin chimneying. I can let her down now, tell her to jump. I've got enough tension on the rope. But I have the urge to give her a pull. I just want to see if she can do it.

"Mr. Schiller?" Her voice comes down to me, a bit uncertain, but not scared. "I can't reach the next one."

"Try the one to your right," I say.

She reaches for it and nearly slips. "I don't think I can get it," she says.

"Try again," I say.

She reaches. She falls.

* * *

The rope makes a whirring sound as it threads its way through my harness. I start to feel scared, but I slow down so fast that I don't really have time to think about it. I hang in the air dangling and pull my arms and legs in, preparing to strike the wall at my back. But Mr. Schiller lets me fall far enough that when I swing backward and hit the wall, it hurts but not enough to knock the wind out me.

"Are you alright?" he calls to me.

"I'm okay," I say. My hand is bleeding from where I scraped it against the wall.

"Do you want me to let you down?" he asks.

The pain in my hand is intense. I don't want to give up, but I don't know if I can keep climbing. But the sound of his voice suggests there's another alternative. "Can you help me get back to the wall?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller doesn't answer right away.

"Mr. Schiller?" I say.

"I could," he says. "I could give you a pull."

"Okay," I say.

"Natalie, are you sure?" he says. "It's an advanced technique. Chimney climbing is very difficult."

I look up over my head at where the light pinches out, where the walls close in so tight I'd be pinned between them. "I just want to see if I can do it," I say.

Mr. Schiller's voice is heavy with something when he answers. "Alright, I'll give you a pull."

* * *

The rope creaks as I raise her toward the chimney. Her body stays slack so that she can watch for the walls on both sides. I pull her past the last point where she got stuck, and I stop pulling when she's close enough to reach both walls at the same time. She isn't heavy, especially with her weight levered through the belay, but I find I'm sweating when she reaches the wall. I hold the guide and brake ropes in one hand while I wipe the sweat off my palm.

"Turn sideways," I call to her.

She reaches for the wall behind her.

"Good, now place one foot on the wall to your right and the other on the wall to your left," I say.

I feel her weight come off the rope as she positions herself on the handholds. "Okay," she says. "Now what do I do?"

"You want to alternate using your arms and your legs. When you take the weight off one foot, you want to use both your arms and your other foot to pull yourself upward, but go slowly. Make small movements," I say.

"Okay," she says. She begins to climb. My face hurts from trying not to smile.

* * *

The space narrows from four feet to three and a half. Then it narrows further to three. I can feel the walls closing in around me, and I won't be able to stay sideways much longer. I look up. The handholds disappear into the darkness. I pull myself up, working my feet onto the holds that are getting smaller and further apart. I reach a point where my next step will bring both my shoulders into contact with the walls.

"Mr. Schiller?" I call.

"Are you doing alright?" he asks.

It occurs to me that he can no longer see me. I get a chill when I realize that I'm alone in the dark, that anything could happen to me and no one would know. I take a breath. No, I'm connected to Mr. Schiller. Even if no one else knows, he will.

I force my voice to be calm. "I'm running out of space," I say.

I hear a sound like a sigh or a laugh, but I don't look down to see his expression because I'm afraid the height will freeze me in my spot. "Turn toward the wall behind you. Lay your back against the wall you were originally climbing," he says.

It takes me a minute to figure out how to get both my feet and then my hands onto the back wall, but I do it with only a tiny slip. Mr. Schiller pulls up on my harness, and it starts to hurt.

"Okay," I say.

"Can you keep going?" he calls.

I squint my eyes and look up above me. I'm now in near total darkness. "I can't see the handholds," I call.

"Just feel for them," he says.

I run my palms over the smooth wall until I feel a shallow handhold, no deeper than the first two joints of my fingers. These handholds are cut into the wall and not jutting out like the ones below. I inch upward. I feel like a spider.

This climbing is a lot different from climbing below. It's slow instead of fast, inching instead of jumping. It's dark – close. It feels more mental than physical.

Up above me, I start to see a light. At first I think it's from a light bulb, like the ones in the gym ceiling below me, but it's cooler, bluer. It looks like a natural light.

* * *

I stand waiting for several minutes on the floor. I can't see her anymore because it's too dark, and sweat runs down my forehead into my eyes. I've never stood down here while someone made it this far. I've never known what it felt like to watch them disappear. It occurs to me that it's easier to be the climber than to wait at the bottom, feeling for tension in the rope that signals a fall.

I want to call out to her but don't. I want her to find her own way.

The slack is coming so slowly now, I wonder if she has stopped climbing all together, but every so often I get an inch or two more. There is no sound down here except the creaking of the rope through the brake, except my breathing, the beating of my heart.

It's silent for what feels like an hour, and then I hear a small gasp, a delighted laugh.

"Mr. Schiller," she says.

I smile through my teeth. "Yes, Natalie," I say.

"I can see the back of the kitchen!" she calls.

I grin. "So you've found out my secret," I say.

"There's a trap door. I can climb through it into the kitchen," she says.

I laugh. "That's good," I say. "But don't."

* * *

The chimney narrows on all sides until I'm in a space no larger than a broom closet. I think I must be at the top, but I keep reaching. I keep finding handholds to grab. I can barely fit into this tiny space. I'm shocked that Mr. Schiller can get up this. I work my way up like a crab in a box until I see more light coming in over my head. I inch upward and look through the next door. It's one-way glass, showing me the upstairs hallway. That's when I realize the mirrors in the kitchen, the upstairs hallway – they're really trap doors to this wall. I've found out a secret I've walked by over and over, with only Mr. Schiller to tell.

* * *

I lower her slowly back down through the chimney. I have to rely on her to tell me the right speed. But when I see her emerge out of the darkness, I let out the rope a little bit faster. She hangs relaxed inside her harness, as natural as if we'd started when she was a little girl. She holds the rope attached to her harness with one hand while the other lays slack at her side.

When she reaches the floor, she can't stand for a minute. Her body hasn't gotten used to flat ground yet. She leans back, not taking her weight onto her feet, and I reach out for her, scooping her up. I put her back onto her feet and steady her until she's found her footing again. She looks up at me, her smile triumphant. I rest my hands on both her shoulders. "What did you think?" I ask her.

"It was incredible," she says. She laughs. She puts her hands on my forearms, holding onto me. It is then that I notice her hand.

"You're bleeding," I say. I take her tiny hand in both of mine and turn it so that I can examine the cut. It's a series of scratches that run down the blade of her palm – the blood already dried in most places.

"It's okay," she says. "It doesn't really hurt anymore."

I look at her face. I have the urge to cup my hand around her cheek, but I feel guilty. I feel scared. I feel weak.

"Let's go upstairs," I say. I flash a brief smile. "We'll get you a bandage for your hand."

"But I want to try more," Natalie says. She pushes the hair back off her face, and her eyes scan the gym, moving like antennae probing the room.

"Later," I say. I put my arm around her shoulders and start walking her back toward the stairs.

She resists for a moment, looking back over her shoulder, and I nearly have to pull her along.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Hey, everyone! Sorry it's taken me so long to post the next chapter. :P Ella, you're so cute. You totally didn't discourage me :) I've just been working a ton lately, so I didn't have time to update. :T But thank you for your sweet review, and thank you all so much for your support and encouragement. You guys are the best!**

* * *

We sit facing each other on a narrow bench, Mr. Schiller straddling it and me with one foot on it. He does have normal clothes – a ripped t-shirt and loose-fitting pants – but neither of them is in color. The t-shirt is white and the pants are black. The tape he wraps around his hands is also black. But I've gotten used to his look – like a charcoal drawing you no longer see the lines in anymore.

He looks down at my hand, cradled between his, while he wraps thick white tape around my wrist. Then he winds black stretchy fabric around the base of my forearm until it winds up and over my palm. His touch is so gentle, so warm – it's like he's wrapping a baby bird in a scarf. It reminds me of how my dad used to lace up my ice skates when I was a little girl. In those quiet minutes, my dad threading and tugging, smiling at me like we were on an adventure.

I look at the top of Mr. Schiller's head, his hair while he tapes me – waves of black – like the ocean in the middle of the night. My dad is light, laughter and forgetting – sepia, gold, amber. Mr. Schiller is dark, smooth and liquid – charcoal, shadow, dusk.

* * *

I teach her judo. We do that first, before we even go to the heavy weight bag, before I teach her punching and kicking, before I show her things that will frustrate her. The first time I throw her, she holds on tight – so tightly I have to talk her into letting me go – just so that she can see what will happen, just so she can learn how to fall. The second time I throw her, she lets go – she puts her faith totally in me. By the fifth time I throw her, she laughs, giddy with excitement, while she sails through the air toward the mat.

When I teach her how to escape from a bear hug, that's when her expression changes. That's when this is no longer a game. She understands now why I'm doing this. She concentrates on learning the way. She practices it over and over, her face dark with focus, with intensity. When she's mastered it, she stands there a long time thinking, debating whether to tell me about it or not.

In the end, she doesn't, and I'm glad for it. I don't want to feign surprise or not react. And I don't want to tell her that I already know, that Bowman mentioned it before he died.

* * *

We sit outside after the sun's come out, on a dry patch of grass on the back slope. We share ice cream, eating it out of the container using fancy spoons – chocolate and vanilla with pieces of brownie inside. It's the perfect blend of Mr. Schiller and me, I think – both the flavors and the way that we eat it. The sun comes out, and it warms my skin. I squint my eyes in the brightness of the sunshine.

Mr. Schiller stretches out on his side in the grass, his head propped on his hand and his top leg with the knee bent. He pulls the container closer to him with the last two fingers of his right hand and dips his spoon into it again. I scoot closer to him and fold my legs underneath me, sitting with my back lightly resting against his bent leg. We both look out over the valley below, and I watch birds swooping and diving to catch bugs out of the air. It's like an aerial circus, like birds come here to train their best tricks.

"Do you sit out here a lot?" I ask. I keep my eyes trained on the birds when I talk. I expect him to say, "all the time". That's what I would do.

But Mr. Schiller gives a single shake of his head and half shrugs with one of his shoulders. "Never," he says. He squints, like the light is brighter for him because of how pale his eyes are.

I turn and look across my shoulder at him, brushing my chin against the sleeve of my t-shirt. "Why not?" I ask.

He purses his lips and gives another shrug, as if the thought never occurred to him before.

"It's beautiful," I say. I fish around for a bite with a brownie in it. "I would sit out here all the time," I say. I look out and watch another bird dive.

The breeze blows my hair back, and Mr. Schiller asks me if I'm cold before I realize that I am. He sits up and brushes grass off his sleeves. He unzips the gray hooded sweatshirt he is wearing and takes it off, draping it around my shoulders before I can answer.

"Thanks," I say. I hug it close around me. It's slightly damp with sweat and smells like Mr. Schiller.

He smiles at me and stretches back out on the grass on his side. "Your mother's coming to get you tonight," he says. He brushes the tips of the grass with his fingers.

I nod at him and smile.

"Are you looking forward to going home?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. I say it automatically, before I realize how rude it sounds. "I mean, I really like it here. I just – I've kind of missed my mom."

"It's understandable," Mr. Schiller says. He gives a shrug and a smile that creases his face with lines.

"What about you? When does your father get back?" I ask.

"Tomorrow evening," Mr. Schiller says. He grins at me. "Unless he decides to stay longer."

"Will you be okay on your own?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller turns and looks at me full on. He stares, the way he sometimes stares at my mother. I wonder if it's supposed to be unnerving, or maybe he's just stopping to think. When he doesn't say anything, I go on.

"I mean, will you be lonely – will you miss me when I go home?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller stares at me for a long time, and I start to think maybe I should drop it. Then he sits up, slowly, and leans forward until his chest is inches from my arm. He drops his chin toward my shoulder and speaks quietly, like he's preparing to tell me a secret. "What do you think?" he asks. He looks from my shoulder up to my eyes.

I purse my lips, thinking about it for a minute. It's different for adults to be alone at home – it's their house, so I think they feel more comfortable in it. But on days that I'd come home early from school and find my dad sanding down the back deck, he'd be so excited to see me, as if he were waiting all day for me to get home. "I don't know," I say. I shake my head. "I don't know how it is for adults. I think it must be different," I say.

"Different from what?" he asks.

"Different from living in your parents' house. I don't like being alone at home. I'm used to being there with my parents or with my brothers," I say. "But I think it'd be different if it were my house, if I were used to living in it alone."

Mr. Schiller nods, as if he's mulling over my answer – assessing it for its validity. We look back out over the valley and watch another bird dive toward the ground. Mr. Schiller keeps his eyes on it when he speaks. "And you?" he says. He squints his eyes, watching the bird. "Will you miss me when you've gone?" He doesn't turn to look at me until after he's finished speaking.

"Yes," I say, without hesitation. I barely have to think about it at all.

* * *

It's late, and I'm tipsy by the time I get to Schiller's. It took me a long time at Alexandra's before she'd let me leave. She'd wanted to drink to our new working relationship when I brought her the money. Her take is the majority, and it looks even bigger in a lump sum. And when she said, "let's celebrate it with a drink", I knew because she's bratva that she means vodka straight. And by "a drink", she really means three. I'm still thinking in Russian when I get to Schiller's, and I don't even scowl when Vincent calls me "love".

I push open the door and step inside. Classical piano music fills the house. It's Schubert, and it echoes off the stones. It's coming from the living room, but I don't walk in from the front. Instead, I skirt around the stairs toward the kitchen at the back. There I inch my way forward to the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the back of the living room.

What I'd thought was a CD at first is really Schiller – sitting at the grand piano – playing. The sound fills the room with music – thunderous, lilting, lyrical – echoing off the surfaces all around us. I stand there, staring at him. The music is so loud, so rhythmic, so strong I think I can feel it in my chest when he plays. It's like we're on the inside of a rock cavern, the music surrounding us, reflecting back at us from every direction.

His body moves very slightly with the music, rocking barely with each thunderous burst. It's melancholy in a way I don't know how to describe. I feel it ache within the confines of my chest. It's not lonely – it's more complicated than that. It is a grieving sound, like the piano is crying. Without realizing it, my eyes fill with tears. My hands ache to reach out and touch it.

When he's finished, he sits back with a sigh. He strokes the keys once, lovingly, almost petting them, before removing his hands and resting them on the bench at his side. He picks up a glass of red wine and raises it to his lips, but he hesitates before taking a sip.

"Have a drink with me," he says. He's staring at the piano. It's a long time before he turns to look at me.

I'm suddenly aware that I'm still standing there, leaning my body up against the doorframe like I'm hugging it, even my head cradled against its side. There are tears in my eyes, and I blink them back – fast. I didn't mean to let Schiller see me standing there. "I – I'm sorry. I shouldn't . . ." I say. I glance down at the floor under my feet.

Schiller takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Help yourself. There's a glass in the kitchen."

I see the wine bottle – open on the counter. I chew on my bottom lip lightly. "I need to drive later on," I say.

Schiller smiles at me – a wide smile – and he picks up his glass, walking past me into the kitchen. I can feel my cheeks getting warm. "I see you've already been to Alexandra's," he says. He nods at me and grins in a knowing way.

I bite my lip and glance around at my side. Schiller's gaze makes me feel pinned to my spot.

"She always likes to celebrate with a strong vodka," Schiller says. He reaches over his head and takes a second wine glass out of the cabinet. He sets it on the counter beside his and fills them both. He carries them over and stops in the doorway. I'm turned sideways so that as he walks through, his shoulder faces my chest. I flatten myself against the doorway behind me because he passes so close to me my face gets hot. He holds out a glass to me. I swallow, keeping my eyes on the glass when I reach for it. At the last second, he pulls it back a fraction. He dips his chin until he catches my eye. "For you bratva, the stronger the better."

I take a breath. I don't know how to answer him. I don't know if his statement requires a response. But he stares at me for several long seconds before finally turning and walking back to the piano.

He sits down again and sets down his glass. He strokes the keys with long, steady fingers. I hold my glass in both my hands. I don't know if he's going to start playing again. I don't know what I should do if he does.

"Mr. Schiller," I say. My voice comes out rough.

He looks across his shoulder at me, as if he's forgotten that I'm there.

"Where is Natalie?" I ask. I have to hold the glass tightly to keep from fidgeting.

"She's sleeping," Schiller says. He leans back – confident and comfortable in his house. There's not a trace of the brooding he's been doing lately. He's back to his unsettling control.

I shake my head. "It's only 9:30," I say. I glance down at my watch.

Schiller shrugs. "We had an exciting day," he says. He doesn't explain what he means. "She laid down about an hour ago to take a nap, but she might even sleep through the night."

"But how can she sleep through your playing?" I ask. I take a quick breath, as if I can inhale my words back in. I don't mean to tell him I think it's amazing. I don't mean to think it's amazing.

He shrugs. "The rooms upstairs are soundproofed," he says.

I stare at him.

"Not the doors, only the walls," he says. As if that explains anything. "Do you play?" he asks. He gestures at the piano. He lifts his glass and takes a long drink.

I shake my head and walk into the room slowly. I stop and lean my arms against the side, looking down into the inner workings of the piano.

"Nothing? Not at all?" he asks.

I laugh. I don't know why this seems to shock him.

He leans his head to the side, shaking it, as if to say, "too bad". He reaches out and puts his hand on my back, pulling me close until I'm seated on the bench. I can smell the rich scent of wine on his breath, and it's then that I realize he's tipsy too. "Perhaps you will indulge me then," he says. He lays his fingers back onto the keys.

I feel myself smile, and I nod my head – forgetting not to look too eager. Schiller grins at me and gives a small shake of his head, too daring, too charming for what we are doing. He looks down at the keys under his fingers. His body moves when the first notes hit the air. He strokes the keys more than he presses them, and the piano answers with a gutteral moan. The music rocks me so hard I feel myself moving with it. I never knew music could sound like that before. The sound moves me, it fills me, it takes me over. It pours into me until be we are both overflowing.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Here's the last chapter. I'm sorry it took me soooooo long to post it! I just finished a job, moved and started a new job, so I've been swamped. But thank you so much for your patience and all of your support! You have been the best readers ever, and I've enjoyed this process so much because of all you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

* * *

It's cold in the morning when I tumble out of bed, but I don't feel like getting dressed right away. Instead, I pull on Mr. Schiller's sweatshirt over my pajamas and stuff my hands into the pockets on my way out the door. I stop in front of the mirror in the upstairs hallway – the one made out of one-way glass. I cup my hands around a small space, and I lean close, trying to see through to the other side. I can't see anything – it must be because it's dark in the chimneys, and I try to imagine myself on the other side. I feel like Alice going through the looking glass. But all I see in the reflection is me.

I go down the stairs, slowly at first, but when I see the time on the clock in the entryway I start to run. "Mr. Schiller," I call out, bounding down the stairs. My feet know the cracks so I don't fall.

Mr. Schiller catches me on the landing and holds me still for a minute. He leans in, pressing his mouth against my hair. "Ssh," he says. He hugs me against him, and I'm surprised how quickly it comforts me. "Your mother is sleeping," he says. He nods towards the sofa in the living room.

"She's here?" I ask. I look up at him.

He nods and lets go of my arms. He waits for me while I creep into the living room, checking as if I think it's a trick. My mother is there, curled up under a white afghan blanket. It lays over her, making her look tiny. I lean close and take a breath of her air. I touch my cheek against the curve of her shoulder.

Mr. Schiller cocks his head, looking at me. I wonder how long it will take before I can stop feeling scared, stop wondering who I'm going to lose next. I feel like this has only begun.

I stand up – slow – and cross the room to Mr. Schiller. His arms are folded across his chest as he studies me. Then he reaches out an arm without saying anything and loops it around my shoulders. He turns me and walks me into the kitchen. He takes me to one of the tall chairs at the island and waits while I climb onto it. Then he leans down, resting his elbows on the counter next to me. He doesn't look at me, just waits for me to speak.

I turn to him slowly and look at the side of his face. "I thought she didn't come last night," I say. I say it softly, my words layering like feathers in a down blanket.

Mr. Schiller squints his eyes, like he's trying to work out a problem in his head. "And what would it mean if she hadn't?" he asks. He doesn't look at me until he's finished speaking.

"It would mean something had happened to her," I say.

Mr. Schiller gives a small sideways nod. "Or it could mean she got held up."

I chew on my bottom lip for a minute. "I guess, but then she would have called me," I say.

"She may have, or she may have called me," Mr. Schiller says.

I shake my head. "Three months ago I had a dad, and now I don't. Three days ago, I had an uncle, and now I don't," I say.

Mr. Schiller narrows his eyes even more, studying me. "Your mother is a very – resourceful – woman. I don't believe you need to worry about her," he says.

"But what she's doing – what you guys are doing – it's dangerous. Isn't that right?" I say.

"It is," Mr. Schiller says. And he nods again. "But your mother has good instincts for it. And, in any event, it won't be for much longer. There is an end in sight."

I look at Mr. Schiller for a long time. "After the end – then you won't make her do these things anymore?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller presses his lips together for a moment. "That's correct," he says.

I nod and look down at my hands. Mr. Schiller puts his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes it, then rubs my back. He dips his chin down until he catches my eye.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "I can make you something."

I chew on my bottom lip and look back at him. He gives me a smile and then walks around the island, taking out a pan and putting it on the stove. He takes out bowls of different sizes and sets eggs onto the counter.

"Mr. Schiller," I say. I look at his back.

He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. I rest the tips of my fingers on the edge of the island and push myself up. I tilt my head, sagging my weight back. He squints his eyes and puts his hands on his hips, concentrating on me.

"Am I going to see you again after this?" I ask.

Mr. Schiller drops one hand down by his side, and then he circles the island back to me. He licks his bottom lip and looks out the window behind his back. He leans his hip against the island and brings his face close. "It depends, Natalie," he says. He presses his lips together, his thinking dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Do you want to see me after this? You're about to go home, be with your family."

I scrape my teeth across my bottom lip. I don't want to remind him that my family has suddenly gotten smaller – that I don't want to lose anyone else – that even though I know it's too soon for it, I've gotten attached to him, that he makes me feel safe. I know it's because of this void, this gaping hole that was left by my father and Uncle Mike. Just knowing he's been here for me has been comforting, and I'm not ready to give that away. I raise my eyes to his and just nod.

Mr. Schiller leans his weight against the island, lacing his fingers together in front of him and meeting my gaze. "I can't promise you that I will see you again. It's not solely my decision to make, and I don't make promises unless I am sure I can keep them," he says. He wets his lips and lowers his chin a little more, until he is almost looking upward at me. "But what I can give you is this." He reaches into the pocket of my sweatshirt – his sweatshirt – and takes out my phone. He dials a number into the keypad and holds it out to me. "This is the number to my personal cell phone. No one has this – not even your mother. If you ever need to reach me for any reason, you can call me on this line."

I take the phone back and hold it in both my hands. What I would like better is if he said I could call him any time, that he'd be around if I just wanted to hang out. But I understand by the way he's telling me this, that it won't be like that – that he's not permanent, not a fixture in my life, and it makes me sad to hear it.

* * *

By the time I get up, Natalie is dressed and waiting for me. Her bags are packed and standing next to the door. Schiller walks us to the front steps but goes no farther. I'm not sure how I know it, but I think if it were me alone, he'd walk me to my car. He'd carry my bags for me and put them in. He's holding himself back this morning – from me, but also from her. There are tears in her eyes when she says goodbye to him, and she presses her whole body against him when she hugs him. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath of his scent, and it makes my chest ache to see the look on her face.

Schiller holds her – tighter than I've ever seen him do before. He lays his hand on the side of her head and leans down, laying a kiss into her hair that lasts seconds. It's been just over three days that they've spent together, but the way they hold onto each other makes it seem like so much more than that. She holds onto his hand when she finally steps away. She keeps contact with him as long as she can.

When their hands part, Schiller's eyes meet mine – and the look is so immediate, so intense it knocks the wind out of me. He stares straight into my eyes – full force – for three long seconds, and I think my heart might crash it's pounding so hard. But then he smiles – brief and fleeting. And I would have stumbled if I hadn't been holding onto the doorknob, my grip tight.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Schiller says. His voice is thick as honey, sharp as venom.

I nod, nearly convulsant. "Tomorrow," I whisper.

_The End_

* * *

**A/N: That's it! :P The "tomorrow" reference kicks off the events of "The Coke" and "The Hit". I'd love to write more, and if I do, it'll pick up after "The Hit". Thank you all again for your support! This has been an awesome experience!**


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